THE 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK; 


A   SEIiECTION   OF 


LESSONS  FOR  READING, 


PROSE  AND  VERSE. 


BY  EBEIVEZER  BAIIiEY, 

PRINCIPAL   OF   THE   YOUNG   LADIES*   HIGH   SCHOOL,   BOSTON. 


BOSTON: 

LINCOLN  AND  EDMANDS. 

QPLUNS  AND  HANNAY,  NEW  YORK ;  KEY  AND  MEILKE,  PHILADEL- 

PfflAj   CCrSHING  AND  SONS,  BALTIMORE. 

1832. 


EDUC-PSYCH 


Entered,  according  to  Act^  Congress,  in  the  year  1831,  by  Ebeitezer 
Bailet,  in  the  Clerk'^jEce  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS.    'Uli>'^ 

.^  roue- 

^  PSYCH. 

lISftARY 

LESSONS  IN  PROSE. 

The  names  of  American  writers  are  in  small  capitals. 
Lesson.  Page. 

1.  On  Elocution  and  Reading N.  A.  Review.  9          ^ 

I  2.  Education  of  Females Story.  11 

6.  Contrasted  Soliloquies   , Jane  Taylor.  17 

10.  Character  of  a  wise  and  amiable  Woman Freeman.  25 

12.  Scenery  at  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  ....  Dwight.  29 

13.  "  The  Fashion  of  this  World  passeth  anray" Pierpont.  33 

14.  The  same,  concluded J^^ Ibid.  37 


i^j 


19.  Instability  of  Character ^r. Alison.  45 

20.  The  same,  concluded    , Ibid.  47 

21.  Stability  of  Character  Ibid.  49 

23.  The  Village  Grave- Yard   Greenwood.  53 

25.  The  Wife Irving.  60 

26.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  64 

S9.  The  Mountain  of  Miseries  Mdison.  72 

30.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  75 

31.  Advantages  of  a  Taste  for  the  Beauties  of  Nature  . .  Percival.  77 

35.  Government  of  the  Temper Mrs.  Chapone.  83 

36.  Peevishness Ibid.  86 

37.  Obstinacy Ibid.  83 

41.  Art  of  Pleasing Chesterfield.  94 

42.  Politeness Miss  Talbot.  96 

43.  Confessions  of  a  bashful  Man Anonymous.  97 

44.  Intemperate  Love  of  Praise Blair.  101 

47.  Description  of  the  Custom  of  Whitewashing  ....  Hopkinson.  109 

48.  On  considering  both  Sides  of  a  Question Beaumont.  113 

61.  Influence  of  Christianity  in  elevating  the  Character  of 

Females   Carter.  118 

52.  Letter  on  Watering-places Mrs.  Barbauld.  120 

53.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  123 

55.  Character  and  Decay  of  the  North  American  Indians. .  .Story.  129 

59.  Portrait  of  a  worldly-minded  Woman Freeman.  137 

60.  Portrait  of  a  selfish  Woman Ibid.  140 

62.  Extracts  from  "  A  Father's  Legacy" Gregory.  146 

63.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  148 

65.  A  Family  Scene Miss  Ferrier.  153 

66.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  156 

67.  Local  Associations Otis.  160 


583 


iv  CONTENTS.     '■ 

Xiesson.  Page 

70.  Influence  of  the  Female  Character Thacher.  164 

72.  On  the  relative  Value  of  Good  Sense  and  Beauty  in  the 

Female  Sex Literary  Gazette.  171 

78.  A  Solid  and  a  Superficial  Education  contrasted  . . .  Ruhnken.  180 

80.  On  Discretion   Addison.  188 

81.  Advantages  of  a  well-cultivated  Mind Bigland.  191 

85.  Candor,  in  estimating  the  Attainments  of  others  .  Freeman.  198 

86.  The  Profession  of  a  Woman Miss  Beecher.  201 

90.  On  Respect  for  Ancestors  QciNcy.  210 

91 .  Character  of  the  Puritans Story.  210 

92.  The  Coming  of  the  Pilgrims Sullivan.  214 

93.  Lady  Arabella  Johnson   Story.  216 

98.  Effects   of  the   Institutions  and  Example  of  the  first 

Settlers  of  New  England Qcincy.  226 

99.  New  England Mrs.  Child.  228 

100.  Conclusion  of  a  Discourse,  in  Commemoration  of  the 

first  Settlement  of  Salem,  Mass Story.  229 

105.  Childhood JV.  M.  Magazine.  239 

106.  The  same,  concluded    Ibid.  242 

107.  Dialogue  :  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bolingbroke Miss  Edgeworth.  245 

108.  The  Burning  of  Moscow Labaume.  247 

109.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  250 

110.  View  of  Mont  Blanc  at  Sunset Griscom.  253 

117.  Comparison  of  Waters Miss  Edgeworth.  260 

118.  Female  Economy  .  .j^^ Hannah  More.  262 

119.  Maternal  Influence^T Mrs.  Sigourney.  263 

120.  Primitive  Tea-Parties  in  New  York    Irving.  265 

123.  Baneful  Effects  of  Intemperance Sprague.  270 

125.  The  Uncalled  Avenger London  Museum.  275 

128.  Extract  from  ''Suggestions  on  Education"  .  Miss  Beecher.  282 

129.  Female  Accomplishments Hannah  More.  284 

132.  Conclusion  of  a  Discourse  in  Commemoration  of  the 

Lives  of  Adams  and  Jefferson Webster.  291 

133.  Education  a  Life  Business Francis.  293 

137.  Lilias  Grieve Wilson.  299 

138.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  303 

1 39.  Hopes  and  Fears  of  Parents Francis.  306 

142.  Western  Emigration Everett.  315 

143.  The  tjod  of  Universal  Nature Chalmers.  316 

146.  Dignity  and  Excellence  of  the  Poetical  Art Channing.  324 

147.  Popular  Institutions  favorable  to  Intellectual  Improve- 

ment   Everett.  327 

153.  The  moral  Principles  of  the  Bible  of  universal  Applica- 
tion . . . : Wayland.  336 

158.  An  Incident  in  the  early  History  of  America Scott.  345 

163.  Fashionable  Follies  Flint's  Western  Review.  356 

169.  Grandeur  of  Astronomical  Science N.  A.  Review.  373 

170.  Escape  from  a  Panther    Cooper.  376 

174.  Indolence  and  Intellectual  Dissipation  Wirt.  389 

176.  The  Tiger's  Cave Edinburgh  Literary  Journal.  393 

177.  The  same,  concluded  Ibid.  396 


CONTENTS.  ^ 

LESSONS  IN  VERSE. 

Lesson.  T?tge 

3.  Breathings  of  Spring Mrs.  HemaTis.    12 

4.  The  Winged  Worshippers Sprague.     14 

5.  Select  Paragraphs 15 

7.  To  the  Rainbow Campbell.  20 

8.  Christian  Hymn  of  Triumph Mllman.  22 

9.  Consolations  of  Religion  to  the  Poor Percival.  24 

11.  Scene  of  Filial  Affection Shakspeare.  27 

15.  Passing  Away Miss  Jcicsbury.  40 

16.  The  Death  of  the  Flowers Bryant.  41 

17.  The  Autumn  Evening Peabody.  42 

18.  Autumn  Woods Bryant.  43 

22.  The  First  Wanderer Miss  Jewshury.  52 

24.  Consumption   Percival.  58 

27.  Elysium Mrs.  Hemans.     67 

28.  Better  Moments Willis.     70 

32.  The  Common  Lot Montgomery.     79 

33.  The  Deserted  Wife Percival.    80 

34.  The  Last  Man   Campbell.     81 

38.  Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girl's  School  Mrs.  Hemans.    90 

39.  Seasons  of  Prayer .^ Ware.    91 

40.  Solitude ■ Byron.     93 

45.  God's  First  Temples ^^ Bryant.  104 

46.  Morning  Hymn    Milton.  107 

40    The  Flight  of  Xerxes Miss  Jewsbury.  115 

50.  Pairing  Time  anticipated   Cowper.  116 

54    The  Tear  of  Penitence Moore.  125 

56.  Melancholy  Fate  of  the  Indians Sprague.  132 

57.  Concluding  Lines  of  the  "Fall  of  the  Indian"  ..McLellan.  135 

58.  Death-Song  of  Outalissi Campbell.  136 

61.  Fancy  and  Philosophy  contrasted Benttie.  142 

64.  To  a  Log  of  Wood  upon  the  Fire   . .  JVcw  Monthly  Magazine.  151 

68.  To  Seneca  Lake    Percival.  162 

69.  Lake  Superior Goodrich.  163 

71.  A  Scene  in  a  private  Mad-House    Lewis.  169 

73.  Maternal  Affection Mrs.  Hemans.  173 

74.  Napoleon  at  Rest Pierpont.  174 

75.  The  Warrior Anonymous.  175 

76.  War Porteiis.  177 

77.  The  Battle  of  Blenheim Sonthey.  178 

79.  Conversation Cowper.  186 

82.  The  Vulture  of  the  Alps Anonymous.  194 

83.  Song  of  the  Stars Bryant.  196 

84.  Domestic  Love Croly.  197 

87.  Curiosity Sprague.  203 

88.  The  Love  of  Country  and  of  Home Montgomery.  206 

89.  Columbus  in  Chains  Miss  Jezvsbury.  207 

94.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers Sprague.  21a 

95.  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers    Mrs.  Hemans.  221 

96.  Hymn Pierpont.  222 

97.  The  Western  World Bryant.  223 

101.  The  Death  of  Moses Taylor.  233 

102.  Sonnet  on  the  Entrance  of  the  American  Woods Gait.  23o 

103.  Marco  Bozzaris Halleck.  236 

1* 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Lesson.  Page 

104.  Reflections  of  a  Belle  N.  E.  Weekly  Review.  2.38 

111.  To  the  Stars Croly.  254 

112.  Sabbath  Morning Grahame.  255 

113.  The  Evening  Cloud   Wilson.  257 

114.  Twilight Halleck.  257 

115.  Perpetual  Adoration Moore.  259 

116.  Music  of  Nature Pierpont.  260 

121.  The  Recluse Beuttie.  267 

122.  Farewell  to  the  Dead Mrs.  Hemans.  269 

124.  Night,— a  Field  of  Battle Shelley.  273 

126.  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouny  . .  Coleridge.  278 

127.  The  Soldier's  Widow   Willis.  281 

130.  To  the  Evening  Wind  Bryant.  286 

131.  To  the  Ursa  Major Ware.  287 

134.  Parrhasius   Willis.  295 

135.  The  Soul's  Defiance Anonymous.  298 

136.  Sonnet  to  the  South  Wind Bryant.  299 

140.  Scene  from  Hadad Hillhouse.  308 

141.  Immortality    Dana.  313 

144.  Rome Byron.  319 

145.  Dialogue  :  Rienzi  and  Angelo Miss  Mitford.  320 

148.  After  a  Tempest Bryant.  329 

149.  The  Rejected Bayley.  330 

150.  Rhine  Song  of  the  ^rman  Soldiers Mrs.  Hemans.  332 

151.  The  Isles  of  Greec^^ Byron.  333 

152.  Liberty  to  Athens   .^?. Percival.  335 

154.  The  Dead  Mother:  a  Dialogue    Anonymous.  340 

155.  Burial  of  the  Young Mrs.  Sigourney.  342 

156.  On  the  Loss  of  Professor  Fisher  in  the  Albion  ..  Brainard.  344 

157.  The  Sunday  School   Mrs.  Sigourney.  344 

159.  Trust  in  God Wordsworth.  349 

160.  The  Patriot's  Wish Sprague.  351 

161.  Summer  Noon   Wilcox.  353 

162.  Summer  Wind Bryant.  354 

164.  Lochiel's  Warning Campbell.  360 

165.  Joan  of  Arc  in  Rheims  Mrs.  Hemans.  363 

166.  Raphael's  Account  of  the  Creation    Milton.  365 

167.  Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church-Yard  Gray.  367  ^ 

168.  Dialogue  :   Gesler  and  Tell    Knowles.  371  * 

171.  Order  of  Nature Pope.  381 

172.  A  Sister  pleading  for  the  Life  of  a  Brother Shakspeare.  383 

173.  The  Passions  Collins.  386 

175.  Darkness   Byron.  391 

178.  The  Sword     Miss  Landon.  399 

179.  Address  to  the  Deity Mrs.  Barhauld.  400 

180.  God Bowring.  402 

181.  Scene  from  "  The  Vespers  of  Palermo" Mrs.  Hemans.  405 

182.  Address  to  Light Milton.  407 


IIVDEX   OF    AUTHORS. 


Lessons. 

Addison,  Joseph 29,  30,  80. 

Alison,  A 19,20,21. 

Anonymous  .  .43,  75, B2, 135, 154. 


Barbauld,  Mrs.  AnnaL.  52,53,179. 
Bayley,  Thomas  Haynes  . . .  149. 

Beattie,  James 5,  Gl,  121. 

Beaumont 48. 

Beecher,  Miss  Catherine  E.  .  .86, 

128. 

Bigland 81. 

Bkir,  Hugh 44. 

Bowring,  John 180. 

Brainard,  John  G.  C 156. 

Bryant,  WiUiam  Cullen  . .  16,  18, 

45,  83,  97,  130, 136,  148,  162. 
Byron,  George  Gordon  .  .40,  144, 

151,  175. 


Campbell,  Thomas .  .7, 34, 58, 164. 

Carter,  James  G 51. 

Chalmers,  Thomas 143. 

Channing,  WilUam  Ellery  . .  146. 
Chapone,  Mrs.  Hester .  .35, 36,  37. 

Chesterfield 41. 

Child,  Mrs 99. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  . .  .126. 

ColUns,  William 173. 

Cooper 170. 

Cowper,  William 50,  79. 

Croly,  George 84,  111. 

Dana,  Richard  H 141. 

D wight,  Timothy 12. 


Edge  worth,  Miss  Maria.  .107, 117. 
Edinburgh  Literary  Journal . .  176, 

177. 
Everett,  Edward 142, 147. 


Lessons. 

Ferrier,  Miss 65,  66. 

Flint,  Timothy 163. 

Francis,  Convers 133,  139. 

Freeman,  James  . .  10,  59,  60,  85. 

Gait 102. 

Gay,  John 5. 

Goodrich,  Samuel  G 69. 

Grahame,  James 112. 

Gray,  ^omas 167. 

Greened,  F.  W.  P 23. 

Gregory,  John 62,  63. 

Griscom,  John 110. 


Halleck,  Fitz  Greene  . .  .103, 114. 
Hemans,  Mrs.  Felicia  .  .3,  27,  38, 
73,95,122,150,  165,181. 

Hillhouse,  James  A 140. 

Hopkinson,  Francis 47. 


Irving,  Washington  .  .25,  26, 120. 


Jewsbury,  Miss  Maria  Jane  . .  15, 
22,  49,  89. 


Knowles,  James  Sheridan  . .  .168. 


Labaume 108, 109. 

Landon,  Miss  L.  E 178. 

Lewis,  M.  G 71. 

Literary  Gazette 72. 

London  Museum 125 

McLellan,  Isaac,  Jr.  . . .' 57. 

Milman,  Henry  Hart 8 

Milton,  John 46, 166, 182. 


Vlll 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Lessons. 
Mitford,  Miss  Mary  Russell.  .145. 

Montgomery,  James 32,  88. 

Moore,  Thomas 54, 1]5. 

More,  Hannah 118,  129. 

New  England  Review 104. 

New  Monthly  Magazine .  .64, 105, 

106. 
North  American  Review  .  .1, 169. 


Otis,  Harrison  Gray 


.67. 


Peabody,  W.  B.  0 17. 

Percival,  J.  G.  . .  9, 24,  33, 68, 152. 

Percival,  Thomas 31. 

Pierpont,  John . .  13, 14, 74, 96, 116. 

Pope,  Alexander 171. 

Porteus   76. 

Quincy,  Josiah -^SO,  98. 

Rogers,  Samuel 5. 

Ruhnken 78. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 158. 


Lessonsu 
Shakspeare,  William  ...  .11, 172. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 124. 

Sigourney,  Mrs.  Lydia  H.  . .  119, 

155, 157. 

Southey,  Robert 77. 

Sprague,  Charles  . .  4,  56,  87,  94, 

123,  160. 
Story,  Joseph  . .  2, 55, 91, 93, 100. 
Sullivan,  William 92. 

Talbot,  Miss 42. 

Taylor,  Miss  Jane 6. 

Taylor,  John  S 101. 

Thacher,  S.  C 70. 

Thomson,  James  5. 

Ware,  Henry,  J 39,  131. 

Wayland,  Francis,  Jr 153. 

Webster,  Daniel 132. 

Wilcox.  Carlos 16] . 

Willis,  Nathaniel  P. .  .28, 127, 134. 

Wilson,  John 113,  137,  138. 

Wirt,  WilHam 174. 

Wordsworth,  William 159. 

Young,  Edward  5. 


THE 


YOUNG  LADIES^   CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  I. 

On  Elocution  and  Reading. — N.  A.  Review. 

The  business  of  training  our  youth  in  elocution  must  be 
commenced  in  childhood.  The  first  school  is  the  nursery. 
There,  at  least,  may  be  formed  a  distinct  articulation,  which 
is  the  first  requisite  for  good  speaking.  How  rarely  is  it 
found  in  perfection  among  our  orators!  Words,  says  one, 
referring  to  articulation,  should  "  be  delivered  out  from  the 
lips,  as  beautiful  coins,  newly  issued  from  the  mint ;  deeply 
and  accurately  impressed,  perfectly  finished,  neatly  struck  by 
the  proper  organs,  distinct,  in  due  succession,  and  of  due 
weight."  How  rarely  do  we  hear  a  speaker,  whose  tongue, 
teeth  and  lips  do  their  office  so  perfectly  as,  in  any  wise,  to 
answer  to  this  beautiful  description  !  And  th<^  common  faults 
in  articulation,  it  should  be  remembered,  take  their  rise  from 
the  very  nursery.     But  let  us  refer  to  other  particulars. 

Grace  in  eloquence — in  the  pulpit,  at  the  bar — cannot  be 
separated  from  grace  in  the  ordinary  manners,  in  private  life, 
in  the  social  circle,  in  the  family.  It  cannot  well  be  superin- 
duced upon  all  the  other  acquisitions  of  youth,  any  more 
than  that  nameless,  but  invaluable  quality,  called  good 
breeding.  You  may,  therefore,  begin  the  work  of  forming 
the  orator  with  your  child ;  not  merely  by  teaching  him  to 
declaim,  but,  what  is  of  much  more  consequence,  by  observ- 
ing and  correcting  his  daily  manners,  motions  and  attitudes. 

You  can  say,  when  he  comes  into  your  apartment,  or 
presents  you  with  something,  a  book  or  letter,  in  an  awkward 
and  blundering  manner,  "  Just  return,  and  enter  this  room 
again,"  or,  "  Present  me  that  book  in  a  different  manner,"  or, 


10  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

"  Put  yourself  into  a  different  attitude."  You  can  explain  to 
him  the  difference  between  thrusting  or  pushing  out  his  hand 
and  arm,  in  straight  lines  and  at  acute  angles,  and  moving 
them  in  flowing,  circular  lines,  and  easy,  graceful  action.  He 
will  readily  understand  you.  Nothing  is  more  true  than  that 
"  the  motions  of  children  are  originally  graceful ;"  and  it  is 
by  suffering  them  to  be  perverted,  that  we  lay  the  foundation 
for  invincible  awkwardness  in  later  life. 

We  go,  next,  to  the  schools  for  children.  It  ought  to  be  a 
leading  object,  in  these  schools,  to  teach  the  art  of  reading. 
It  ought  to  occupy  three-fold  more  time  than  it  does.  The 
teachers  of  these  schools  should  labor  to  improve  themselves. 
They  should  feel,  that  to  them,  for  a  time,  are  committed  the 
future  orators  of  the  land. 

We  had  rather  have  a  child,  even  of  the  other  sex,  return  to 
us  from  school  a  first-rate  reader,  than  a  first-rate  performer 
on  the  piano-forte.  We  should  feel  that  we  had  a  far  bette? 
pledge  for  the  intel%ence  and  talent  of  our  child.  The 
accomplishment,  in  its  perfection,  would  give  more  pleasure. 
The  voice  of  song  is  not  sweeter  than  the  voice  of  eloquence ; 
and  there  may  be  eloquent  readers,  as  well  as  eloquent  speak* 
ers.  We  speak  oi perfection  in  this  art ;  and  it  is  something, 
we  must  say  in  defence  of  our  preference,  which  v/e  have 
never  yet  seen.  Let  the  same  pains  be  devoted  to  reading, 
as  are  required  "to  form  an  accomplished  performer  on  an 
instrument ;  let  us  have — as  the  ancients  had — the  formers 
of  the  voice,  the  music-masters  of  the  reading  voice  ;  let  us 
see  years  devoted  to  this  accomplishment,  and  then  we  should 
be  prepared  to  stand  the  comparison. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  most  intellectual  accomplishment.  So  is 
music,  too,  in  its  perfection.  We  do  by  no  means  under- 
value this  noble  and  most  delightful  art;  to  which  Socrates 
applied  himself,  even  in  his  old  age.  But  one  recommenda- 
tion of  the  art  of  reading  is,  that  it  requires  a  constant 
exercise  of  mind.  It  demands  continual  and  close  reflec*- 
tion  and  thought,  and  the  finest  discrimination  of  thought. 
It  involves,  in  its  perfection,  the  whole  art  of  criticism  on 
language.  A  man  may  possess  a  fine  genius,  without  being 
a  perfect  reader  ;  but  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  reader  without 
genius. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  H 

LESSON  II. 

Education  of  Females. — Story. 

If  Christianity  may  be  said  to  have  given  a  permanent 
elevation  to  woman,  as  an  intellectual  and  moral  being,  it  is 
as  true  that  the  present  age,  above  all  others,  has  given  play 
to  her  genius,  and  taught  us  to  reverence  its  influence.  It 
was  the  fashion  of  other  times,  to  treat  the  literary  acquire- 
ments of  the  sex  as  starched  pedantry,  or  vain  pretension ; 
to  stigmatize  them  as  inconsistent  with  those  domestic  affec- 
tions and  virtues,  which  constitute  the  charm  of  society.  We 
had  abundant  homilies  read  upon  their  amiable  weaknesses 
and  sentimental  delicacy,  upon  their  timid  gentleness  and 
submissive  dependence ;  as  if  to  taste  the  fruit  of  knowledge 
were  a  deadly  sin,  and  ignorance  were  the  sole  guardian  of 
innocence.  Their  whole  lives  were  "  sicklied  o'er  with  the 
pale  cast  of  thought;"  and  concealment  of  intellectual  power 
was  often  resorted  to,  to  escape  the  dangerous  imputation  of 
masculine  strength. 

In  the  higher  walks  of  life,  the  satirist  was  not  without 
color  for  the  suggestion,  that  it  was 

"  A  youth  of  folly,  an  old  age  of  cards  f 

and  that,  elsewhere,  "  most  women  had  no  character  at  all," 
beyond  that  of  purity  and  devotion  to  their  families.  Ad- 
mirable as  are  these  qualities,  it  seemed  an  abuse  of  the  gifts 
of  Providence,  to  deny  to  mothers  the  power  of  instructing 
their  children,  to  wives  the  privilege  of  sharing  the  intellec- 
tual pursuits  of  their  husbands,  to  sisters  and  daughters  the 
delight  of  ministering  knowledge  in  the  fireside  circle,  to 
youth  and  beauty  the  charm  of  refined  sense,  to  age  and 
infirmity  the  consolation  of  studies,  which  elevate  the  soul, 
and  gladden  the  listless  hours  of  despondency. 

These  things  have,  in  a  great  measure,  passed  away.  The 
prejudices,  which  dishonored  the  sex,  have  yielded  to  the 
influence  of  truth.  By  slow  but  sure  advances,  education 
has  extended  itself  through  all  ranks  of  female  society. 
There  is  no  longer  any  dread  lest  the  culture  of  science 


12  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

should  foster  that  masculine  boldness  or  restless  indepen- 
dence, which  alarms  by  its  sallies,  or  wounds  by  its 
inconsistencies.  We  have  seen  that  here,  as  every  where 
else,  knowledge  is  favorable  to  human  virtue  and  human 
happiness;  that  the  refinement  of  literature  adds  lustre  to 
the  devotion  of  piety ;  that  true  learning,  like  true  taste,  is 
modest  and  unostentatious ;  that  grace  of  manners  receives  a 
higher  polish  from  the  discipline  of  the  schools ;  that  culti- 
vated genius  sheds  a  cheering  light  over  domestic  duties,  and 
its  very  sparkles,  like  those  of  the  diamond,  attest  at  once  its 
power  and  its  purity. 

There  is  not  a  rank  of  female  society,  Jiowever  high, 
which  does  not  now  pay  homage  to  literature,  or  that  wouM 
not  blush  even  at  the  suspicion  of  that  ignorance,  which,  a 
half  century  ago,  was  neither  uncommon  nor  discreditable. 
There  is  not  a  parent,  whose  pride  may  not  glow  at  the 
thought,  that  his  daughter's  happiness  is,  in  a  great  measure, 
within  her  own  command,  whether  she  keeps  the  cool, 
sequestered  vale  of  life,  or  visits  the  busy  walks  of  fashion. 

A  new  path  is  thus  opened  for  female  exertion,  to  alleviate 
the  pressure  of  misfortune,  without  any  supposed  sacrifice  of 
dignity  or  modesty.  Man  no  longer  aspires  to  an  exclusive 
dominion  in  authorship.  He  has  rivals  or  allies  in  almost 
every  department  of  knowledge ;  and  they  are  to  be  found 
among  those,  whose  elegance  of  manners  and  blamelessness 
of  life  command  his  respect,  as  much  as  their  talents  excite 
his  admiration. 


LESSON  III. 
Breathings  of  Spring. — Mrs.  Hemans. 

What  wak'st  thou.  Spring  1 — Sweet  voices  in  the  woods, 
And  reed-like  echoes,  that  have  long  been  mute  j 

Thou  bringest  back,  to  fill  the  solitudes. 

The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's  viewless  flute, 

Whose  tone  seems  breathing  mournfulness  or  glee. 
Even  as  our  hearts  may  be. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I3 

And  the  leaves  greet  thee,  Spring ! — the  joyous  leaves, 
Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a  copse  and  glade, 

Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush  receives, 

When  thy  south  wind  hath  pierced  the  whispery  shade, 

And  happy  murmurs,  running  through  the  grass, 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And  the  bright  waters — they,  too,  hear  thy  call, 
Spring,  the  awakener  !  thou  hast  burst  their  sleep ! 

Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their  fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forests  deep, 

Where  sudden  sparkles  and  blue  gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day,  # 

And  flowers — the  fairy-peopled  world  of  flowers ! 

Thou  from  the  dust  hast  set  that  glory  free, 
Coloring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny  hours. 

And  penciling  the  wood-^anemone  : 
Silent  they  seem  ;  yet  each  to  thoughtful  eye 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 

But  what  awak'st  thou  in  the  heart,  O  Spring — 
The  human  heart,  with  all  its  dreams  and  sighs  I 

Thou  that  giv'st  back  so  many  a  buried  thing. 
Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies ! 

Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth  where'er  thou  art : 
What  wak'st  thou  in  the  heart  ? 

Too  much,  oh  1  there  too  much ! — we  know  not  well 
Wherefore  it  should  be  thus,  yet,  roused  by  thee, 

What  fond,  strange  yearnings,  from  the  soul's  deep  cell, 
Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may  see ! 

How  are  we  haunted,  in  thy  wind's  low  tone, 
By  voices  that  are  gone ! 

Looks  of  familiar  love,  that  never  more, 

Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes  shall  meet, 
Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  household  door. 

And  vanished  smiles,  and  sounds  of  parted  feet- 
Spring  !  midst  the  murmurs  of  thy  flowering  trees, 
Why,  why  reviv'st  thou  these  1 
2 


I 


1^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead  ! — why  come  they  back 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves,  and  living  blooms  ? 

Oh !  is  it  not,  that  from  thine  earthly  track 

Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  beyond  the  tombs  ? 

Yes,  gentle  Spring  ;  no  sorrow  dims  thine  air, 
Breathed  by  our  loved  ones  there  ! 


LESSON  IV. 

The  Winged  Worshippers. — C.  Sprague. 

[Addressed  to  two  SwaJlows,  that  flew  into  Church  during  Divine  Service.] 

Gay,  guiltless  pair. 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  1 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer. 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here. 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  1 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep : 

Penance  is  not  for  you. 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing. 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Or,  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  fndeed, 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


LESSON  V. 

SELECT    PARAGRAPHS. 
Memory. — Rogers. 

Hail,  Memory,  hail !     In  thy  exhaustless  mine, 
From  age  to  age,  unnumbered  treasures  shine ! 
Thought,  and  her  shadowy  brood,  thy  call  obey, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway  I 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone, — 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  die 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky ; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away. 
But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  1 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  sUeam  of  living  light, 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest. 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blessed. 


15 


10  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

True  Dignity. — Beattie. 

Vain  man,  is  grandeur  given  to  gay  attire  ? 

Then  let  the  butterfly  thy  pride  upbraid ; — 
To  friends,  attendants,  armies,  bought  with  hire  1 

It  is  thy  weakness  that  requires  their  aid ; — 

To  palaces,  with  gold  and  gems  inlaid? 
They  fear  the  thief,  and  tremble  in  the  storm  ; — 

To  hosts,  through  carnage  who  to  conquest  wade? 
Behold  the  victor  vanquished  by  the  worm  ! 
Behold  what  deeds  of  wo  the  locusts  can  perform ! 

True  dignity  is  his,  whose  tranquil  mind 
Virtue  has  raised  above  the  things  below  ; 

Who,  every  hope  and  fear  to  Heaven  resigned, 

Shrinks  not,  though  fortune  aim  her  deadliest  blow. 

Beauty. — Gay. 

What  is  the  blooming  tincture  of  the  skin 
To  peace  of  mind  and  harmony  within  ? 
What  the  bright  sparkling  of  the  finest  eye 
To  th€  soft  soothing  of  a  calm  reply  ? 
Can  comeliness  of  form,  or  shape,  or  air, 
With  comeliness  of  words  or  deeds  compare  ? 
No . — those  at  first  the  unwary  heart  may  gain  ; 
But  these,  these  only,  can  the  heart  retain. 

Indolence. — Thomson. 

Their  only  labor  was  to  kill  the  time  ; 

And  labor  dire  it  is,  and  weary  wo. 
They  sit,  they  loll,  turn  o'er  some  idle  rhyme : 

Then,  rising  sudden,  to  the  glass  they  go, 

Or  saunter  forth,  with  tottering  step  and  slow : 
This  soon  too  rude  an  exercise  they  find ; 

Straight  on  their  couch  their  limbs  again  they  throw, 
Where,  hours  on  hours,  they,  sighing,  lie  reclined, 
And  court  the  vapory  god,  soft-breathing  in  the  wind.    „■ 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  17' 

Cfiange. — Young. 

Look  nature  through ;  'tis  revolution  all : 
All  change  ;  no  death.     Day  follows  night,  and  night     > 
The  dying  day  ;  stars  rise,  and  set,  and  rise  ;  / 

Earth  takes  the  example.     See,  the  Summer,  gay      •: 
With  her  green  chaplet  and  ambrosial  flowers,        i' 
Droops  into,  pallid  Autumn  :     Winter,  gray. 
Horrid  with  frost,  and  turbulent  with  storm. 
Blows  Autumn,  and  his  golden  fruits,,  away; — 
Then  melts  into  the  Spring.     Soft  Spring,  with  breath 
Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south, 
Recalls  the  first.     All,  to  re-flourish,  fades ; 
As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks  to  re-ascend — 
Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 


LESSON  VI. 

Contrasted  Soliloquies. — Jane  Taylor. 

"  Alas  !"  exclaimed  a  silver-headed  sage,  "  how  narrow 
is  the  utmost  extent  of  human  science! — how  circum- 
scribed the  sphere  of  intellectual  exertion!  I  have  spent 
my  life  in  acquiring  knowledge  ;  but  how  little  do  I  know  ! 
The  farther  I  attempt  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  nature,  the 
more  I  am  bewildered  and  benighted.  Beyond  a  certain 
limit,  all  is  but  confusion  or  conjecture ;  so  that  the  advan- 
tage of  the  learned  over  the  ignorant,  consists  greatly  in 
having  ascertained  how  little  is  to  be  known. 

"  It  is  true  that  I  can  measure  the  sun,  and  compute  the 
distances  of  the  planets ;  I  can  calculate  their  periodical 
movements,  and  even  ascertain  the  laws  by  which  they  per- 
form their  sublime  revolutions;  but  with  regard  to  their 
construction,  and  the  beings  which  inhabit  them,  what  do  I 
know  more  than  the  clown  ? 

"  Delighting  to  examine  the  economy  of  nature  in  our  own 
world,  I  have  analyzed  the  elements ;  and  have  given  names 
2* 


18  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

to  their  component  parts.  And  yet,  should  I  not  be  as  much 
at  a  loss  to  explain  the  burning  of  fire,  or  to  account  for  the 
liquid  quality  of  water,  as  the  vulgar,  who  use  and  enjoy 
them  without  thought  or  examination? 

"  I  remark  that  all  bodies,  unsupported,  fall  to  the  ground; 
and  I  am  taught  to  account  for  this  by  the  law  of  gravitation. 
But  what  have  I  gained  here  more  than  a  term  1  Does  it 
convey  to  my  mind  any  idea  of  the  nature  of  that  mysterious 
and  invisible  chain,  which  draws  all  things  to  a  common 
centre  ?  I  observe  the  effect,  I  give  a  name  to  the  cause ; 
but  can  I  explain  or  comprehend  it  1 

"  Pursuing  the  track  of  the  naturalist,  I  have  learned  to 
distinguish  the  animal,  vegetable  and  mineral  kingdoms ;  and 
to  divide  these  into  their  distinct  tribes  and  families :  but 
can  I  tell,  after  all  this  toil,  whence  a  single  blade  of  grass 
derives  its  vitality  ?  Could  the  most  minute  researches 
enable  me  to  discover  the  exquisite  pencil,  that  paints  and 
fringes  the  flower  of  the  field  1  Have  I  ever  detected  the 
secret,  that  gives  their  brilliant  dye  to  the  ruby  and  the  era^ 
erald,  or  the  art  that  enamels  the  delicate  shell  ? 

"  I  observe  the  sagacity  of  animals  ;  I  call  it  instinct,  and 
speculate  upon  its  various  degrees  of  approximation  to  the 
reason  of  man.  But,  after  all,  I  know  as  little  of  the  cogi- 
tations of  the  brute,  as  he  does  of  mine.  When  I  see  a  flight 
of  birds  overhead,  performing  their  evolutions,  or  steering 
their  course  to  some  distant  settlement,  their  signals  and 
cries  are  as  unintelligible  to  me,  as  are  the  learned  languages 
to  the  unlettered  rustic  :  I  understand  as  little  of  their  policy 
and  laws,  as  they  do  of  Blackstone's  Commentaries. 

''But,  leaving  the  material  creation,  my  thoughts  have 
often  ascended  to  loftier  subjects,  and  indulged  in  metaphys- 
ical speculation.  And  here,  while  I  easily  perceive  in  myself 
the  two  distinct  qualities  of  matter  and  mind,  I  am  baffled 
in  every  attempt  to  comprehend  their  mutual  dependence 
and  mysterious  connexion.  When  my  hand  moves  in  obedi- 
ence to  my  will,  have  I  the  most  distant  conception  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  volition  is  either  communicated  or 
understood  ?  Thus,  in  the  exercise  of  one  of  the  most  sim- 
ple and  ordinary  actions,  I  am  perplexed  and  confounded,  if 
I  attempt  to  account  for  it. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  jg 

"  Again,  how  many  years  of  my  life  were  devoted  to  the 
acquisition  of  those  languages,  by  the  means  of  which  I 
might  explore  the  records  of  remote  ages,  and  become  famil- 
iar with  the  learning  and  literature  of  other  times !  And 
what  have  I  gathered  from  these,  but  the  mortifying  fact,  that 
man  has  ever  been  struggling  with  his  own  impotence,  and 
vainly  endeavoring  to  overleap  the  bounds  which  limit  his 
anxious  inquiries  1 

"  Alas  !  then,  what  have  I  gained  by  my  laborious  re- 
searches, but  an  humbling  conviction  of  my  weakness  and 
ignorance?  How  little  has  man,  at  his  best  estate,  of  which 
to  boast !  What  folly  in  him  to  glory  in  his  contracted  pow- 
ers, or  to  value  himself  upon  his  imperfect  acquisitions !" 


"Well,"  exclaimed  a  young  lady,  just  returned  from 
school,  "  my  education  is  at  last  finished ! — indeed,  it  would 
be  strange,  if,  after  five  years'  hard  application,  any  thing 
were  left  incomplete.  Happily,  that  is  all  over  now  ;  and  I 
have  nothing  to  do,  but  to  exercise  my  various  accomplish- 
ments. 

"  Let  me  see  ! — As  to  French,  I  am  mistress  of  that,  and 
speak  it,  if  possible,  with  more  fluency  than  English.  Italian 
I  can  read  with  ease,  and  pronounce  very  well ;  as  well,  at 
least,  as  any  of  my  friends ;  and  that  is  all  one  need  wish  for 
in  Italian.  Music  I  have  learned  till  I  am  perfectly  sick  of 
it.  But,  now  that  we  have  a  grand  piano,  it  will  be  delight- 
ful to  play  when  we  have  company ;  I  must  still  continue  to 
practise  a  little ; — the  only  thing,  I  think,  that  I  need  now 
improve  myself  in.  And  then  there  are  my  Italian  songs ! 
which  every  body  allows  I  sing  with  taste ;  and  as  it  is  what 
so  few  people  can  pretend  to,  I  am  particularly  glad  that 
I  can. 

"  My  drawings  are  universally  admired, — especially  the 
shells  and  flowers,  which  are  beautiful,  certainly  :  besides 
this,  I  have  a  decided  taste  in  all  kinds  of  fancy  ornaments. 
And  then  my  dancing  and  waltzing, — in  which  our  master 
himself  owned  that  he  could  take  me  no  farther ; — ^just  the 
figure  for  it,  certainly ;  it  would  be  unpardonable  if  I  did 
not  excel. 


20  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

"  As  to  common  things,  geography,  and  history,  andpoetry^, 
and  philosophy, — thank  my  stars,  I  have  got  through  them 
all !  so  that  I  may  consider  myself  not  only  perfectly  accom- 
plished, but  also  thoroughly  well  informed. — Well,  to  be  sure^ 
how  much  I  have  fagged  through ! — the  only  wonder  is,  that 
one  head  can  contain  it  all  1" 


LESSON  VII. 

To  the  Rainbow. — Campbell. 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art. 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given, 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all,  that  optics  teach,  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so. 
As  when  I  dreamed  of  gems  and  gold, 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws. 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws ! 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams, 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Wa«i  woven  in  the  sky. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  gj 

When,  o'er  the  green,  undeluged  earth, 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ? 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep. 

The  first-made  anthem  rang, 
On  earth,  delivered  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 

Unraptured  greet  thy  beam : 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 

Be  still  the  poet's  theme  ! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings. 
When,  glittering  in  the  freshened  fields. 

The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle,  cast 

O'er  mountain,  tower  and  town. 
Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 

A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark. 

As  young,  thy  beauties  seem, 
As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark. 

First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page. 

Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span. 
Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age, 

That  first  spoke  peace  to  man.       y 


22  YOUNG  LADIES'  GLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  VIII. 
Christian  Hymn  of  Triumph  ;—from  "  The  Martyr  of  An- 

tioch" MiLMAN. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  let  harp,  and  lute,  and  voice, 
Up  to  the  expanding  gates  of  heaven  rejoice, 

While  the  bright  martyrs  to  their  rest  are  borne ! 
Sing  to  the  Lord !  their  blood-stained  course  is  run, 
And  every  head  its  diadem  hath  won, 

Rich  as  the  purple  of  the  summer  morn — 
Sing  the  triumphant  champions  of  their  God, 
While  burn  their  mounting  feet  along  their  sky-ward  road. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  for  her,  in  beauty's  prime, 
Snatched  from  this  wintry  earth's  ungenial  clime, 

In  the  eternal  spring  of  paradise  to  bloom ; 
For  her  the  world  displayed  its  brightest  treasure, 
And  the  airs  panted  with  the  songs  of  pleasure. 

Before  earth's  throne  she  chose  the  lowly  tomb. 
The  vale  of  tears  with  willing  footsteps  trod, 
Bearing  her  cross  with  thee,  incarnate  Son  of  God 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  it  is  not  shed  in  vain. 

The  blood  of  martyrs  !  from  its  freshening  rain 

High  springs  the  church,  like  some  fount^eh  ado  wing  palm : 
The  n,ations  crowd  beneath  its  branching  shade. 
Of  its  green  leaves  are  kingly  diadems  made. 

And,  wrapt  within  its  deep,  embosoming  calm. 
Earth  shrinks  to  slumber  like  the  breezeless  deep. 
And  war's  tempestuous  vultures  fold  their  wings  and  sleep, 

Sing  to  the  Lord  I  no  more  the  angels  fly — 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  stainless  sky — 

The  sound  of  fierce,  licentious  sacrifice. 
From  shrined  alcove  and  stately  pedestal. 
The  marble  gods  in  cumbrous  ruin  fall ; 

Headless,  in  dust,  the  awe  of  nations  lies ; 
Jove's  thunder  crumbles  in  his  mouldering  hand. 
And  mute  as  sepulchres  the  hymnless  temples  stand. 


yOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.     '     33 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  from  damp,  prophetic  cave 
No  more  the  loose-haired  Sybils  burst  and  rave ; 

Nor  watch  the  augurs  pale  the  wandering  bird  : 
No  more  on  hill  or  in  the  murky  wood, 
Mid  frantic  shout  and  dissonant  music  rude, 

In  human  tones  are  wailing  victims  heard  ; 
Nor  fathers,  by  the  reeking  altar  stone, 
Cowl  their  dark  heads  to  escape  their  children's  dying  groan. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  no  more  the  dead  are  laid 
In  cold  despair  beneath  the  cypress  shade, 

To  sleep  the  eternal  sleep,  that  knows  no  morn  : 
There,  eager  still  to  burst  death's  brazen  bands, 
The  angel  of  the  resurrection  stands  ; 

While,  on  its  own  immortal  pinions  borne, 
Following  the  breaker  of  the  imprisoning  tomb. 
Forth  springs  the  exulting  soul,  and  shakes  away  its  gloom. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  the  desert  rocks  break  out, 
And  the  thronged  cities  in  one  gladdening  shout, — 

The  farthest  shores  by  pilgrim  step  explored ; 
Spread  all  your  wings,  ye  winds,  and  waft  around, 
Even  to  the  starry  cope's  pale  waning  bound, 

Earth's  universal  homage  to  the  Lord ; 
Lift  up  thine  head,  imperial  capitol, 
Proud  on  thy  height  to  see  the  bannered  cross  unroll. 

Sing  to  the  Lord !  when  time  itself  shall  cease, 
And  final  Ruin's  desolating  peace 

Enwrap  this  wide  and  restless  world  of  man  ; 
When  the  Judge  rides  upon  the  enthroning  wind. 
And  o'er  all  generations  of  mankind 

Eternal  Vengeance  waves  its  winnowing  fan ; 
To  vast  infinity's  remotest  space, 
While  ages  run  their  everlasting  race, 
Shall  all  the  beatific  hosts  prolong, 
Wide  as  the  glory  of  the  Lamb,  the  Lamb's  triumphant  song 


34  yOUNG  LADIES'  CLAS3  BOOK. 

LESSON  IX. 
Consolations  of  Religion  to  the  Poor. — J.  G.  Percival. 

There  is  a  mourner,  and  her  heart  is  broken ; 

She  is  a  widow ;  she  is  old  and  poor ; 
Her  only  hope  is  in  that  sacred  token 

Of  peaceful  happiness  when  life  is  o'er  ; 

She  asks  nor  wealth  nor  pleasure,  begs  no  more 
Than  Heaven's  delightful  volume,  and  the  sight 

Of  her  Redeemer.     Sceptics,  would  you  pour 
Your  blasting  vials  on  her  head,  and  blight 
Sharon's  sweet  rose,  that  blooms,  and  charms  her  being's  night? 

She  lives  in  her  affections ;  for  the  grave 
Has  closed  upon  her  husband,  children  ;  all 

Her  hopes  are  with  the  arm  she  trusts  will  save 
Her  treasured  jewels :  though  her  views  are  small, 
Though  she  has  never  mounted  high,  to  fall. 

And  writhe  in  her  debasement, — yet  the  spring 
Of  her  meek,  tender  feelings,  cannot  pall 

Her  unperverted  palate,  but  will  bring 
A  joy  without  regret,  a  bliss  that  has  no  sting. 

Even  as  a  fountain,  whose  unsullied  wave 
Wells  in  the  pathless  valley,  flowing  o'er 

With  silent  waters,  kissing,  as  they  lave. 

The  pebbles  with  light  rippling,  and  the  shore 
Of  matted  grass  and  flowers, — so  softly  pour 

The  breathings  of  her  bosom,  when  she  prays, 
Low-bowed,  before  her  Maker  :  then  no  more 

She  muses  on  the  griefs  of  former  days ; 
Her  full  heart  melts,  and  flows  in  Heaven's  dissolving  rays. 

And  faith  can  see  a  new  world,  and  the  eyes 
Of  saints  look  pity  on  her  :     Death  will  come — 

A  few  short  moments  over,  and  the  prize 
Of  peace  eternal  waits  her,  and  the  tomb 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  35 

Becomes  her  fondest  pillow ;  all  its  gloom 
Is  scattered.     What  a  meeting  there  will  be 

To  her  and  all  she  loved  here !  and  the  bloom 
Of  new  life  from  those  cheeks  shall  never  flee : 
Theirs  is  the  health  which  lasts  through  all  eternity. 


LESSON  X. 

Character  of  a  wise  and  amiable  Woman. — Freeman. 

The  woman,  whom  I  would  exhibit  to  your  view,  possesses 
a  sound  understanding.  She  is  virtuous,  not  from  impulse, 
instinct,  and  a  childish  simplicity ;  for  she  knows  that  evil 
exists,  as  well  as  good ;  but  she  abhors  the  former,  and  reso- 
lutely chooses  the  latter.  As  she  has  carefully  weighed  the 
nature  and  consequences  of  her  actions,  her  moral  principles 
are  fixed ;  and  she  has  deliberately  formed  a  plan  of  life,  to 
which  she  conscientiously  adheres.  Her  character  is  her 
own ;  her  knowledge  and  virtues  are  original,  and  are  not 
the  faint  copies  of  another  character.  Convinced  that  the 
duty  of  every  human  being,  consists  in  performing  well  the 
part,  which  is  assigned  by  divine  Providence,  she  directs  her 
principal  attention  to  this  object ;  and,  whether  as  a  wife,  a 
mother,  or  the  head  of  a  family,  she  is  always  diligent  and 
discreet. 

She  is  exempt  from  affectation,  the  folly  of  little  minds. 
Far  from  her  heart  is  the  desire  of  acquiring  a  reputation, 
or  of  rendering  herself  interesting,  by  imbecilities  and  im- 
perfections. Thus  she  is  delicate,  but  not  timid  :  she  has  too 
much  good  sense,  ever  to  be  afraid  where  there  is  no  danger ; 
and  she  leaves  the  affectation  of  terror  to  women,  who,  from 
the  want  of  a  correct  education,  are  ignorant  of  what  is  truly 
becoming.  She  is  still  farther  removed  from  the  affectation 
of  sensibility ;  she  has  sympathy  and  tears  for  the  calamities 
of  her  friends ;  but  there  is  no  artificial  whining  on  her 
tongue ;  nor  does  she  ever  manifest  more  grief  than  she 
really  feels. 

In  so  enlightened  an  understanding,  humility  appears  with 
3 


S6  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

peculiar  grace.  Every  wise  woman  must  be  humble ;  be- 
cause every  wise  woman  must  know,  that  no  human  being 
has  anything  to  be  proud  of.  The  gifts,  which  she  possesses, 
she  has  received ;  she  cannot  therefore  glory  in  them,  as  if 
they  were  of  her  own  creation.  There  is  no  ostentation  in 
any  part  of  her  behavior :  she  does  not  affect  to  conceal  her 
virtues  and  talents,  but  she  never  ambitiously  displays  them. 
She  is  still  more  pleasingly  adorned  with  the  graces  of  mild- 
ness and  gentleness. 

Her  manners  are  placid,  the  tones  of  her  voice  are  sweet, 
and  her  eye  benignant ;  because  her  heart  is  meek  and  kind. 
From  the  combination  of  these  virtues  arises  that  general 
effect,  which  is  denominated  loveliness, — a  quality  which 
renders  her  the  object  of  the  complacence  of  all  her  friends, 
and  the  delight  of  every  one  who  approaches  her.  Believing 
that  she  was  born,  not  for  herself  only,  but  for  others,  she 
endeavors  to  communicate  happiness  to  all  who  are  around 
her ;   in  particular,  to  her  intimate  connexions. 

Her  children,  those  immortal  beings,  who  are  committed 
to  her  care,  that  they  may  be  formed  to  knowledge  and  vir- 
tue, are  the  principal  objects  of  her  attention.  She  sows  in 
their  minds  the  seeds  of  piety  and  goodness ;  she  waters 
them  with  the  dew  of  heavenly  instruction ;  and  she  eradi- 
cates every  weed  of  evil,  as  soon  as  it  appears.  Thus  does 
she  benefit  the  church,  her  country,  and  the  world,  by  train- 
ing up  sincere  Christians,  useful  citizens,  and  good  men.  It 
is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe,  that,  with  so  benevolent  a 
heart,  she  remembers  the  poor,  and  that  she  affords  them, 
not  only  pity,  but  substantial  relief 

As  she  is  a  wise  woman,  who  is  not  afraid  to  exercise  her 
understanding,  her  experience  and  observation  soon  convince 
her,  that  the  world,  though  it  abounds  with  many  pleasures, 
is  not  an  unmixed  state  of  enjoyment.  Whilst,  therefore,  she 
is  careful  to  bring  no  misfortunes  on  herself  by  imprudence, 
folly,  and  extravagance,  she  looks  with  a  calm  and  steady  eye 
on  the  unavoidable  afflictions  through  which  she  is  doomed 
to  pass;  and  she  arms  her  mind  with  fortitude,  that  she  may 
endure,  with  resolution  and  cheerfulness,  the  severest  trials. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  27 

When  sickness  and  distress  at  last  come,  she  submits  to 
them  with  patience  and  resignation.  A  peevish  complaint 
does  not  escape  from  her  lips ;  nor  does  she  once  murmur 
because  the  hand  of  her  heavenly  Father  lies  heavy  upon 
her.  She  is,  if  possible,  more  serene,  more  mild,  more 
gentle,  on  the  bed  of  disease,  than  she  was  in  the  seasons  of 
health  and  felicity.  So  affectionate  is  she  to  her  surrounding 
friends,  and  so  grateful  for  the  attentions  which  they  pay  to 
her,  that  they  almost  forget  that  she  suffers  any  pain. 

The  love  of  God  crowns  all  her  virtues :  religion  is  deeply 
fixed  in  her  heart ;  but  here,  as  in  all  her  behavior,  she  ia 
without  parade.  Her  piety  is  sincere  and  ardent,  but  humble 
and  retired.  *  *  #  *  #  *  ^  mind, 
in  which  strength  and  gentleness  are  thus  united,  may  be 
compared  to  the  soft  light  of  the  moon,  which  shines  with  the 
perpetual  rays  of  the  sun.  We  are,  at  first  view,  ready  to 
imagine  that  it  is  more  lovely  than  great,  more  charming 
than  dignified ;  but  we  soon  become  convinced,  that  it  is 
filled  with  true  wisdom,  and  endowed  with  noble  purposes. 


LESSON  XI. 

Scene  of  Filial  Affection. — Lear,  Cordelia  and  Physician. 

SlIAKSPEARE. 

Cor.    O  MY  dear  father  !     Restoration  hang 
Her  medicine  on  my  lips,  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made ! — 
Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 
Did  challenge  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 
To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds  ? 
To  stand  against  the  deep,  dread-bolted  thunder  t 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,  cross  lightning  1    My  enemy's  dog, 


28  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire  :  and  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father, 

To  hovel  thee  with  swine  and  rogues  forlorn, 

In  short  and  musty  straw  1  Alack,  alack  ! 

'Tis  wonder,  that  thy  life  and  wits,  at  once, 

Had  not  concluded. — Ah  \  he  wakes ;  speak  to  him. 

Phys.     Madam,  do  you  ;    'tis  fittest. 

Cor.     How  does  my  royal  lord  1    How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

Lear.     You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  th'  grave ; 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss,  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.     Sir,  do  you  know  me  1 

Lear.     You  are  a  spirit,  I  know  ;  when  did  you  die  ? 

Cor.     Still,  still  far  wide— 

Phys.     He's  scarce  awake  ;  let  him  alone  awhile. 

Lear.     Where  have  I  been  1  where  am  I  ?  fair  daylight  1 
I'm  mightily  abused  ;  I  should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus.     I  know  not  what  to  say ;  J"  - 

I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands  :  let's  see — 
I  feel  this  pin  prick  :  would  I  were  assured 
Of  my  condition. 

Cor.     Oh  !  look  upon  me,  sir, 
And  hold  your  hand  in  benediction  o'er  me — 
Nay,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.     Pray,  do  not  mock  me  ; 
I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upward  ;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man ; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I'm  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is  ;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments  ;  nay,  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.     Pray,  do  not  mock  me ; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.     And  so  I  am  ;  I  am. — 

Lear.     Be  your  tears  wet  ?  yes ;  I  pray  you,  weep  not. 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  39 


I  know  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong. 
You  have  some  cause  ;  they  have  not. 

Cor.     No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear.     Am  I  in  France  ? 

Cor.     In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.     Do  not  abuse  me. 

Phys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam  ; — 
Desire  him  to  go  in ;  trouble  him  no  more 
Till  farther  settling. 

Cor.     Wiirt  please  your  highness  walk  ? 

Lear.     You  must  bear  with  me  ; 
Pray  you  now  forget  and  forgive  ; 
I  am  old  and  foolish. 


LESSON  XII. 

Scenery  at  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains. — Dwight. 

The  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains  is  a  phrase  appropri- 
ated to  a  very  narrow  defile,  extending  two  miles  in  length 
between  two  huge  cliffs,  apparently  rent  asunder  by  some 
vast  convulsion  of  nature.  This  convulsion  was,  in  my  own 
view,  that  of  the  deluge.  There  are  here,  and  throughout 
New  England,  no  eminent  proofs  of  volcanic  violence,  nor 
any  strong  exhibitions  of  the  power  of  earthquakes.  Nor 
has  history  recorded  any  earthquake  or  volcano,  in  other 
countries,  of  sufficient  efficacy  to  produce  the  phenomena  of 
this  place.  The  objects  rent  asunder  are  too  great,  the  ruin 
is  too  vast  and  too  complete,  to  have  been  accomplished  by 
these  agents.  The  change  appears  to  have  been  effected 
when  the  surface  of  the  earth  extensively  subsided ;  when 
countries  and  continents  assumed  a  new  face ;  and  a  general 
commotion  of  the  elements  produced  a  disruption  of  some 
mountams,  and  merged  others  beneath  the  common  level  of 
desolation.  Nothing  less  than  this  will  account  for  the  sun- 
dering of  a  long  range  of  great  rocks,  or  rather  of  vast 
3» 


30  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

mountains ;  or  for  the  existing  evidences  of  the  immense 
forde,  by  which  the  rupture  was  effected. 

The  entrance  of  the  chasm  is  formed  by  two  rocks,  stand- 
ing perpendicularly,  at  the  distance  of  twenty-two  feet  from 
each  other ;  one  about  twenty  feet  in  height,  the  other  about 
twelve.  Half  of  the  space  is  occupied  by  a  brook  which 
is  the  head  stream  of  the  Saco ;  the  other  half,  by  the 
road.  The  stream  is  lost  and  invisible  beneath  a  mass  of 
fragments,  partly  blown  out  of  the  road,  and  partly  thrown 
down  by  some  great  convulsion. 

When  we  entered  the  Notch,  we  were  struck  with  the 
wild  and  solemn  appearance  of  every  thing  before  us.  The 
scale,  on  which  all  the  objects  in  view  were  formed,  was  the 
scale  of  grandeur  only.  The  rocks,  rude  and  ragged  in  a 
manner  rarely  paralleled,  were  fashioned  and  piled  by  a 
hand  operating  only  in  the  boldest  and  most  irregular  man- 
ner. As  we  advanced,  these  appearances  increased  rapidly. 
Huge  masses  of  granite,  of  every  abrupt  form,  and  hoary 
with  a  moss  which  seemed  the  product  of  ages,  speedily 
rose  to  a  mountainous  height.  Before  us,  the  view  widened 
fast  to  the  south-east.  Behind  us,  it  closed  almost  instanta- 
neously, and  presented  nothing  to  the  eye  but  an  impassable 
barrier  of  mountains. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  entrance  of  the  chasm,  we 
saw,  in  full  view,  the  most  beautiful  cascade,  perhaps,  in  the 
world.  It  issued  from  a  mountain  on  the  right,  about  eight 
hundred  feet  above  the  subjacent  valley,  and  at  the  distance 
from  us  of  about  two  miles.  The  stream  ran  over  a  series 
of  rocks  almost  perpendicular,  with  a  course  so  little  broken 
as  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  a  uniform  current,  and  yet 
so  far  disturbed  as  to  be  perfectly  white.  The  sun  shone 
with  the  clearest  splendor,  from  a  station  in  the  heavens  the 
most  advantageous  to  our  prospect ;  and  the  cascade  glittered 
down  the  vast  steep,  like  a  stream  of  burnished  silver. 

At  the  distance  of  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  en- 
trance, we  passed  a  brook,  known,  in  this  region,  by  the 
name  of  the  fiume ;  from  the  strong  resemblance  to  that 
object,  exhibited  by  the  channel,  which  it  has  worn,  for  a 
considerable  length,  in  a  bed  of  rocks ;  the  sides  being  per- 
pendicular to  the  bottom.     This  elegant  piece  of  water  we 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  31 

determined  to  examine  farther;  and,  alighting  from  our 
Iiorses,  we  walked  up  the  acclivity  perhaps  a  furlong.  The 
stream  fell  from  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  forty,  or  two 
hundred  and  fifty,  feet  over  three  precipices;  the  second 
receding  a  small  distance  from  the  front  of  the  first,  and  the 
tliird  from  that  of  the  second.  Down  the  first  and  second  it 
fell  in  a  single  current ;  and  down  the  third  in  three,  which 
united  their  streams,  at  the  bottom,  in  a  fine  basin,  formed, 
by  the  hand  of  Nature,  in  the  rocks  immediately  beneath  us. 
It  is  impossible  for  a  brook  of  this  size  to  be  modelled  into 
more  diversified  or  more  delightful  forms ;  or  for  a  cascade 
to  descend  over  precipices  more  happily  fitted  to  finish  its 
beauty. 

The  cliffs,  together  with  a  level  at  their  foot,  furnished  a 
considerable  opening,  surrounded  by  the  forest.  The  sun- 
beams, penetrating  through  the  trees,  painted  here  a  great 
variety  of  fine  images  of  light,  and  edged  an  equally  numer- 
ous and  diversified  collection  of  shadows ;  both  dancing  on 
the  waters,  and  alternately  silvering  and  obscuring  their 
course.  Purer  water  was  never  seen.  Exclusively  of  its 
murmurs,  the  world  around  us  was  solemn  and  silent.  Every 
thing  assumed  the  character  of  enchantment;  and,  had  I 
been  educated  in  the  Grecian  mythology,  I  should  scarcely 
have  been  surprised  to  find  an  assemblage  of  Dryads,  Naiads 
and  Oreades,  sporting  on  the  little  plain  below  our  feet. 
The  purity  of  this  water  was  discernible,  not  only  by  its 
limpid  appearance,  and  its  taste,  but  from  several  other  cir- 
cumstances. Its  course  is  wholly  over  hard  granite ;  and 
the  rocks  and  the  stones,  in  its  bed  and  at  its  side,  instead 
of  being  covered  with  adventitious  substances,  were  washed 
perfectly  clean ;  and,  by  their  neat  appearance,  added  not  a 
little  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery. 

From  this  spot  the  mountains  speedily  began  to  open  with 
increased  majesty;  and,  in  several  instances,  rose  to  a  per- 
pendicular height  little  less  than  a  mile.  The  bosom  of  both 
ranges  was  overspread,  ,in  all  the  inferior  regions,  by  a 
mixture  of  evergreens  with  trees,  whose  leaves  are  deciduous. 
The  annual  foliage  had  been  already  changed  by  the  frost. 
Of  the  effects  of  this  change  it  is,  perhaps,  impossible  for  an 


32  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

inhabitant  of  Great  Britain  to  form  an  adequate  conception, 
without  visiting  an  American  forest. 

In  this  country,  it  is  often  among  the  most  splendid  beau- 
ties of  nature.  All  the  leaves  of  trees,  which  are  not 
evergreens,  are,  by  the  first  severe  frost,  changed  from  their 
verdure,  towards  the  perfection  of  that  color,  which  they  are 
capable  of  ultimately  assuming,  through  yellow,  orange  and 
red,  to  a  pretty  deep  brown.  As  the  frost  affects  different 
trees,  and  different  leaves  of  the  same  tree,  in  very  different 
degrees,  a  vast  multitude  of  tinctures  is  commonly  found  on 
those  of  a  single  tree,  and  always  on  those  of  a  grove  or 
forest.  These  colors  also,  in  all  their  varieties,  are  generally 
full ;  and,  in  many  instances,  are  among  the  most  exquisite, 
which  are  found  in  the  regions  of  nature.  Different  sorts  of 
trees  are  susceptible  of  different  degrees  of  this  beauty. 
Among  them,  the  maple  is  preeminently  distinguished  by 
the  prodigious  varieties,  the  finished  beauty,  and  the  intense 
lustre  of  its  hues ;  varying  through  all  the  dyes  between  a 
rich  green  and  the  most  perfect  crimson,  or,  more  definitely, 
the  red  of  the  prismatic  image. 

I  have  remarked,  that  the  annual  foliage  on  these  moun- 
tains, had  been  already  changed  by  the  frost.  Of  course, 
the  darkness  of  the  evergreens  was  finely  illumined  by  the 
brilliant  yellow  of  the  birch,  the  beech  and  the  cherry,  and 
the  more  brilliant  orange  and  crimson  of  the  maple.  The 
effect  of  this  universal  diffusion  of  gay  and  splendid  light, 
was,  to  render  the  preponderating  deep  green  more  solemn. 
The  mind,  encircled  by  this  scenery,  irresistibly  remembered, 
that  the  light  was  the  light  of  decay,  autumnal  and  melan- 
choly. The  dark  was  the  gloom  of  evening,  approximating 
to  night.  Over  the  whole,  the  azure  of  the  sky  cast  a  deep, 
misty  blue ;  blending,  towards  the  summit,  every  other  hue, 
and  predominating  over  all. 

As  the  eye  ascended  these  steeps,  the  light  decayed,  and 
gradually  ceased.  On  the  inferior  summits  rose  crowns  of 
conical  firs  and  spruces.  On  the  superior  eminences,  the 
trees,  growing  less  and  less,  yielded  to  the  chilling  atmos- 
phere, and  marked  the  limit  of  forest  vegetation.  Above, 
the  surface  was  covered  with  a  mass  of  shrubs,  terminate 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  33 

ing,  at  a  still  higher  elevation,  in  a  shroud  of  dark-colored 
moss. 

As  we  passed  onward,  through  this  singular  valley,  occa- 
sional torrents,  formed  by  the  rains  and  dissolving  snows,  at 
the  close  of  winter,  had  left  behind  them,  in  many  places, 
perpetual  monuments  of  their  progress,  in  perpendicular, 
narrow  and  irregular  paths,  of  immense  length,  where  they 
had  washed  the  precipices  naked  and  white,  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain  to  the  base.  Wide  and  deep  chasma 
aJso  met  the  eye,  both  on  the  summits  and  the  sides ;  and 
strongly  impressed  the  imagination  with  the  thought,  that  a 
hand  of  immeasurable  power  had  rent  asunder  the  solid 
rocks,  and  tumbled  them  into  the  subjacent  valley.  Over 
all,  hoary  cliffs,  rising  with  proud  supremacy,  frowned  awful- 
ly on  the  world  below,  and  finished  the  landscape. 

By  our  side,  the  Saco  was  alternately  visible  and  lost,  and 
increased,  almost  at  every  step,  by  the  junction  of  tributary 
streams.  Its  course  was  a  perpetual  cascade ;  and,  with  its 
sprightly  murmurs,  furnished  the  only  contrast  to  the  scenery 
around  us. 


LESSON  XIII. 
"  The  Fashion  of  this   World  passeth  away." — Pierpont. 

The  earth,  and  all  that  dwell  upon  the  face  of  it,  speak  a 
language  that  is  in  mournful  and  melancholy  accordance 
with  that  of  an  apostle — "  The  fashion  of  this  world  passeth 
away."  A  testimony,  thus  concurrent,  is  solemn,  and  we 
cannot  distrust  it.  It  is  eloquent,  and  we  cannot  but  feel  it. 
We  are  wise  if  we  open  our  eyes  and  our  ears  to  the  evi- 
dence, which  nature  gives  to  the  truths  of  revelation,  and 
labor  that  we  may  impress  distinctly  and  deeply  upon  our 
minds  the  moral  lessons,  which  that  evidence  is  calculated  to 
enforce. 

The  mournful,  but  gentle  voice  of  Autumn,  invites  us  forth, 
that  we  may  see,  for  ourselves,  how  the  fashion  of  this  world 
is  passing  away,  in  regard  to  the  dress  in  which  it  so  lately 


34  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

presented  itself  to  our  view.  The  gardens  and  the  groves, — 
how  are  they  changed !  The  deep  verdure  of  their  leaves 
is  gone.  The  many-colored  woodland,  which,  but  a  few 
weeks  since,  was  arrayed  in  a  uniform  and  lively  green,  now 
presents  a  gaudier  show  indeed,  but  one  of  which  all  the 
hues  are  sickly,  and  are  all  but  the  various  forms  of  death. 
In  the  garden,  the  brown  and  naked  stalk  has  succeeded  to 
the  broad  blossoms  of  summer,  as  they  had,  but  lately,  to  the 
young  leaves  and  swelling  buds  of  spring.  The  orchards, 
that,  but  a  few  short  months  ago,  were  white  with  promise, 
and  that  loaded  with  perfume  the  very  winds  that  visited 
them,  are  now  resigning  their  faded  leaves  and  their  mel- 
low fruit. 

The  wayfaring  man,  who  contemplates  these  changes,  that 
present  themselves  to  his  eye,  in  Nature's  dress,  cannot  be 
insensible  that  her  voice  has  also  changed.  To  his  ear  there 
is  something  more  religious  in  the  whisper  of  the  winds, 
something  more  awful  in  their  roar ;  and  even  the  waters  of 
the  brook  have  changed  their  tone,  and  go  by  him  with  a 
hollower  murmur.  And  how  soon  shall  all  these  things  be 
changed  again !  The  course  of  the  stream  shall  be  checked. 
Its  voice  shall  be  stifled  by  the  snows,  in  which  the  earth  shall 
wrap  herself,  during  her  long  and  renovating  sleep  of  winter. 

In  these  respects  the  fashion  of  the  world  passeth  away, 
we  will  not  say  with  every  year,  but  with  each  successive 
season  of  every  year.  Their  general  effect  is  moral  and 
highly  salutary.  In  them  all  we  hear  a  voice,  which  speaks 
to  us  what  we  may  not,  and  what  we  cannot,  speak  to  one 
another.  They  are  full  of  the  gentle,  but  faithful  admo- 
nitions of  a  parental  Providence,  who  would  remind  us  by 
the  changes,  which  we  so  often  see  going  on  around  us,  that 
*'  we,  too,  shall  all  be  changed."  Yet  these  are  changes  in 
the  fashion  of  this  world,  which,  from  their  very  frequency, 
lose  a  part  of  their  effect.  The  fashions  which  pass  away 
with  the  departing  seasons,  we  know,  will  be  brought  back 
again,  when  the  same  seasons  return;  and  those  scenes, 
which  we  know  will  be  again  presented,  we  believe  that  we 
Bhall  live  to  witness  and  enjoy. 

But  there  are  alterations  in  the  fashion  of  the  world, 
which  time  is  more  slow  in  producing,  and  which,  when  we 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  35 

witness  them,  are  more  striking,  more  melancholy,  and  of 
more  abiding  influence.  Who  will  doubt  this  ?  for  who  has 
not  felt  it  ?  and  who  is  he  that  has  ever  felt,  and  has  now 
forgotten  it  ?  Surely  not  you,  my  friend,  who,  by  the  ap- 
pointments of  an  overruling  Providence,  have  been  compelled 
to  spend  your  days  as  a  stranger  and  a  pilgrim  in  the  earth. 
Did  you,  in  your  young  manhood,  leave  your  home  among 
the  hills,  the  scenes  and  the  companions  of  your  youthful 
sports,  or  of  your  earliest  toils?  Were  you  long  strug- 
gling with  a  wayward  fortune,  in  distant  lands,  or  in  seas 
that  rolled  under  the  line,  or  that  encircled  the  poles  in  their 
cold  embrace  ?  Did  sickness  humble  the  pride  of  your  man- 
hood, or  did  care  whiten  your  temples  before  the  time  ? 

How  often,  in  your  wanderings,  did  the  peaceful  image  of 
your  home  present  itself  to  your  mind!  How  often  did  you 
visit  that  sacred  spot,  in  your  dreams  by  night !  and  how 
faithful  to  your  last  impressions  was  the  garb  in  which,  when 
you  were  far  away,  your  long  forsaken  home  arrayed  itself! 
The  fields  and  the  forests  that  were  around  it,  underwent  no 
change  in  their  appearance  to  your  imagination.  The  trees, 
that  had  given  you  fruit  or  shade,  continued  to  give  the  same 
fruits  and  the  same  shade  to  the  inmates  of  your  paternal 
dwelling;  and  even  in  those  objects  of  filial  or  fraternal 
affection,  no  change  appeared  to  have  been  wrought  by  time, 
during  your  long  absence. 

But  when,  at  length,  you  return,  how  different  is  the  scene, 
that  comes  before  you  in  its  melancholy  reality,  from  that 
which  you  left  in  your  youth,  and  of  which  a  faithful  picture 
has  been  carried  near  to  your  heart,  in  all  your  wanderings ! 
Those  who  were  once  your  neighbors  and  school-fellows,  and 
whom  you  meet,  as  you  come  near  to  your  father's  house, 
either  you  do  not  recognize,  or  you  are  grieved  that  they  do 
not  recognize  you. 

The  woods,  which  clothed  the  hills  around,  and  in  which 
you  had  often  indulged  the  vague,  but  delicious  anticipations 
of  childhood,  have  been  cleared  away ;  and  the  stream  that 
once  dashed  through  them,  breaking  their  religious  silence 
by  its  evening  hymn,  and  whitening,  as  it  rushed  through 
their  shade,  "  to  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn,"  now 
creeps  faintly  along  its  contracted  channel,  through  fields 


36  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

that  have  been  stripped  of  their  golden  harvest,  and  through 
pastures  embrowned  by  a  scorching  sun.  The  fruit  trees 
are  decayed.  The  shade  trees  have  been  uprooted  by  a 
storm,  or  their  hollow  trunks  and  dry  boughs  remain,  vener- 
able, but  mournful  witnesses  to  the  truth,  that  the  fashion  of 
this  world  passeth  away. 

More  melancholy  still  are  the  witnesses  that  meet  you  as 
you  enter  your  father's  house.  She,  on  whose  bosom  you 
hung  in  your  infancy,  and  whom  you  had  hoped  once  more 
to  embrace,  has  long  been  sleeping  in  the  dark  and  narrow 
house.  Your  father's  form,  how  changed !  Of  the  locks 
that  clustered  around  his  brow,  how  few  remain !  and  those 
few,  how  thin  !  how  white  !  His  full  toned  and  manly  voice 
has  lost  its  strength,  and  trembles  as  he  inquires  if  this  is 
indeed  his  son.  The  sister,  whom  you  left  a  child,  is  now  a 
wife,  and  a  mother  ;  the  wife  of  one  whom  you  never  knew, 
one  who  looks  upon  you  as  a  stranger,  and  one  towards 
whom  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  kindle  up  a  brother's  love, 
now  that  you  have  found  so  little  in  the  scenes  of  your  child- 
hood, to  satisfy  the  affectionate  anticipations  with  which  you 
returned  to  them. 

While  you  are  contemplating  these  melancholy  changes, 
and  the  chill  of  disappointment  is  going  through  your  heart, 
the  feeling  comes  upon  you,  in  all  its  bitterness,  that  the 
mournful  ravages,  which  time  has  wrought  upon  the  scenes 
and  the  objects  of  your  attachment,  will  not,  and  cannot  be 
repaired  by  time,  in  any  of  his  future  rounds.  Returning 
years  can  furnish  you  with  no  proper  objects  for  the  fresh 
and  glowing  affections  of  youth ;  and  even  if  those  objects 
could  be  furnished,  it  is  too  late,  now,  for  you  to  feel  for 
them  the  correspondent  affection.  The  song  of  your  moun- 
tain-stream can  never  more  soothe  your  ear.  The  grove  that 
you  loved  shall  invite  you  to  meditation  and  to  worship  no 
more.  Another  may,  indeed,  spring  up  in  its  place ;  but  you 
shall  not  live  to  see  it.  It  may  shade  your  grave ;  but  your 
heart  shall  never  feel  its  charm. 

Your  affections  are  robbed  of  the  treasures,  to  which  they 
clung  so  closely  and  so  long,  and  that  forever.  The  earth, 
where  it  had  appeared  most  lovely,  is  changed.  The  things 
that  were  nearest  to  your  heart,  have  changed  with  it.     The 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  37 

fashion  iii  which  the  world  was  arrayed,  when  it  took  hold 
on  you  with  the  strongest  attachment,  has  passed  away ;  its 
mysterious  power  to  charm  you  has  fled ;  all  its  holiest  en- 
<diantments  are  broken,  and  you  feel  that  nothing  remains 
as  it  was,  but  the  abiding  outline  of  its  surface — its  valleys, 
where  the  still  waters  find  their  way,  and  the  stern  visage 
of  its  everlasting  hills. 


LESSON  XIV. 
TTie  same, — concluded. 

Nor  does  the  fashion  of  the  world  pass  away,  in  regard 
to  the  ever-varying  appearances  of  its  exterior  alone,  its  veg- 
etable productions,  that  flourish  and  fade  with  every  year,  or 
those  that  endure  for  ages  beyond  the  utmost  limit  of  animal 
life.  It  is,  indeed,  an  eloquent  commentary  upon  the  apostle's 
remark,  to  see  the  oak,  that  shaded  one  generation  of  men 
after  another,  even  before  it  had  attained  its  maturity,  and, 
in  the  fulness  of  its  strength,  had  stretched  forth  its  giant 
arms  over  many  succeeding  generations,  yield  to  decay  at 
last,  and  fall,  of  its  own  weight,  after  having  gloried  in  its 
strength  for  centuries. 

It  is  an  eloquent  commentary,  to  see  the  fashion  of  those 
things  passing  away,  in  which  the  proudest  efforts  of  human 
skill  or  human  power  have  been  displayed  ;  to  see  the  curi- 
ous traveller  inquiring  and  searching  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Euphrates  for  the  site  of  ancient  Babylon,  or  measuring  the 
huge  masses  of  rock,  that  composed  the  temple  of  the  sun 
at  Palmyra,  or  digging  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile,  to  bring  to 
light  the  stupendous  relics  of  ancient  architecture,  that  have, 
for  thousands  of  years,  been  buried  in  the  sands  of  the 
desert 

It  is  even  an  eloquent  exposition  of  the  apostle's  remark, 
to  see  the  towers  that  were  raised  by  the  power  of  feudal 
princes,  and  the  abbeys  and  cathedrals  that  were  the  scenes 
of  monastic  devotion,  now  that  they  are  crumbling  and  fall- 
ing away,  their  tottering  walls  curtained  with  ivy,  and  the 
4 


38  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

bird  of  night,  the  only  tenant  of  those  forsaken  abodes  of  a 
stern  despotism,  and  of  a  still  more  stern  superstition. 

But  not  the  products  of  the  earth,  nor  yet  the  works  of 
man,  alone  change  and  pass  away.  In  many  particulars,  the 
^eat  mass  of  earth  itself  is  liable  to  change,  and  has  been 
moulded  into  different  forms.  Hills  have  been  sunk  beneath 
the  depths  of  the  sea,  and  the  depths  of  the  sea,  in  their 
turn,  have  been  laid  bare,  or  thrown  up  into  stupendous 
mountains.  Of  most  of  these  wonderful  changes,  it  is  true, 
history  gives  us  no  account.  But  that  they  have  occurred, 
the  deep  places  of  the  earth,  its  hardest  rocks,  its  gigantic 
hills,  alike  bear  witness. 

Many  of  us  have  seen,  with  our  own  eyes,  those  creatures, 
that  were  once  passing  "  through  the  paths  of  the  seas," 
taken  from  their  marble  beds  in  the  mountain's  bosom,  hun- 
dreds of  miles  from  those  bars  and  doors,  within  which  tlie 
sea  is  now  shut  up,  and  by  which  its  proud  waves  are  now- 
stayed  :  we  cannot  Scij  forever  stayed  ;  for  the  regions  of  the 
earth,  that,  by  one  mighty  convulsion,  have  been  rescued 
from  the  deep,  may,  by  other  mighty  convulsions,  be  given 
back  to  its  dominion  ;  and  those  rich  plains,  that  are  now  the 
theatre  of  vegetative  life  and  beauty,  may,  in  time,  be  sunk 
under  the  weltering  deep,  as  other  fertile  plains  have  been 
before  them. 

In  a  moral,  not  less  than  in  a  physical  sense,  the  fashion 
of  this  world  passeth  away.  The  passions  of  mankind,  it  is 
true,  remain  the  same  in  their  general  character  ;  but  in 
different  ages  and  nations,  under  different  systems  of  morals, 
philosophy  and  religion,  they  are  subjected  to  a  very  different 
discipline,  and  are  directed  towards  different  objects.  But, 
if  we  except  his  general  moral  nature,  what  is  there  in  man, 
in  which  the  canrices  of  fashion  are  not  continually  dis- 
played ? 


If,  then,  the  beauties  of  the  year  are  so  fading,  and  its 
bounties  so  soon  perish ;  if  the  loveliest  scenes  of  nature 
lose  their  power  to  charm,  and  a  few  revolving  years  break 
the  spell,  that  binds  us  to  those  whom  we  love  best ;  if  the 
very  figure  of  the  earth  is  changed  by  its  own  convulsions ; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  39 

if  the  forms  of  human  government,  and  the  monuments  of 
human  power  and  skill,  cannot  endure  ;  if  nothing  on  "  the 
earth  beneath,  or  the  waters  under  the  earth,"  preserves  its 
form  unchanged,  what  is  there  that  remains  forever  the  same? 
What  is  there,  over  which  autumnal  winds  and  wintry 
frosts  have  no  power?  what,  that  does  not  pass  away, 
while  we  are  contending  with  wayward  fortune,  or  struggling 
with  calamity  ?  what,  that  is  proof  against  the  fluctuations 
of  human  opinion,  and  the  might  of  ocean's  waves,  and  the 
convulsions,  by  which  mountains  are  heaved  up  from  the 
ivbyss,  or  thrown  from  their  deep  foundations  ? 

It  is  the  God  by  whom  these  mighty  works  are  done ;  by 
whose  hand  this  great  globe  was  first  moulded,  and  has  ever 
since  been  fashioned  according  to  his  will.  "  Hast  thou  not 
known,  hast  thou  not  heard,  that  the  Everlasting  God,  Jeiio- 
vah,  the  Creator  of  the  ends  of  the  earth,  fainteth  not,  neither 
is  weary  ?" 

To  him,  then,  we  can  go,  and  to  him  let  us  go,  in  a  filial 
assurance  that  there  is  no  variableness  in  him.  Though  the 
glories  of  the  year  fade,  though  our  young  affections  are 
blighted,  and  our  expectations  from  this  world  are  disap- 
pointed, we  know  that  he  has  the  power  to  make  all  these 
melancholy  scenes  of  salutary  influence,  and  conducive  to 
"  the  soul's  eternal  health."  Though  the  opinions  of  the 
world,  and  our  own  opinions  in  respect  to  him,  may  change, 
there  is  no  change  in  the  love  with  which  he  regards  and 
forever  embraces  us.  God  passeth  not  away,  nor  do  his 
laws.  Those  laws  require,  that  we,  and  all  that  is  around 
OS,  should  change  and  pass  away.  Those  laws  govern  us, 
and  will  do  so  forever.  They  bind  us  to  our  highest  good. 
Then  let  us  yield  them  a  prompt  and  a  perpetual  obedience. 

"  The  Creator  of  the  ends  of  the  earth  fainteth  not,  neither 
is  weajy.^'  Nor  does  that  faith  in  him  grow  weary,  which 
he  demands  and  deserves  from  us ;  faith  in  his  wisdom  to 
guide  and  govern  us,  faith  in  his  gracious  promises  to  crown 
our  efforts,  in  his  service,  with  a  reward  that  is  glorious  and 
enduring.  Though  *'  the  mountain  falling  cometh  to  naught," 
though  the  solid  globe  be  shaken  in  its  course,  the  hand  that 
heaved  the  mountains  to  the  heavens,  and  upholds  them 
there,  and  that  curbs  the  earth  in  its  bright  career,  is  extend- 


40  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK- 

ed  to  uphold  all,  who  cast  themselves  upon  it  with  the  prayer 
that  they  may  be  protected,  and  with  the  belief  that  they 
shall  he. 


LESSON  X\. 

Passing  away. — ^Maria  J.  Jewsbury. 

I  ASKED  the  stars,  in  the  pomp  of  night, 
Gilding  its  blackness  with  crowns  of  light. 
Bright  with  beauty,  and  girt  with  power. 
Whether  eternity  were  not  their  dower ; 
And  dirge-like  music  stole  from  their  spheres. 
Bearing  this  message  to  mortal  ears : — 

"  We  have  no  light  that  hath  not  been  given ; 
We  have  no  strength  but  shall  soon  be  riven ; 
We  have  no  power  wherein  man  may  trust; 
Like  him  are  we,  things  of  time  and  dust ; 
And  the  legend  we  blazon  with  beam  and  ray. 
And  the  song  of  our  silence,  is — *  Passing  away.' 

"  We  shall  fade  in  our  beauty,  the  fair  and  bright. 
Like  lamps  that  have  served  for  a  festal  night ; 
We  shall  fall  from  our  spheres,  the  old  and  strong. 
Like  rose-leaves  swept  by  the  breeze  along ; 
The  worshipped  as  gods  in  the  olden  day. 
We  shall  be  like  a  vain  dream — Passing  away." 

Fronx,  the  stars  of  heaven,  and  the  flowers  of  earth. 
From  the  pageant  of  power,  and  the  voice  of  mirth, 
Fron^  the  mists  of  morn  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
From  childhood's  song,  and  affection's  vow, — 
From  all,  save  that  o'er  which  soul  bears  sway, 
Breathes  but  one  record—*  Passing  away.' 

*  Passi^g  away,'  sing  the  breeze  and  ril), 

Afl  they  sweep  on  their  course  by  vale  and  hill  j— 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  41 

Through  the  varying  scenes  of  each  earthly  clime, 
'Tis  the  lesson  of  nature,  the  voice  of  time  ,* 
And  man  at  last,  like  his  fathers  gray. 
Writes  in  his  own  dust — *  Passing  away.' 


LESSON  XVI. 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers. — Bryant. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and 

sere. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  withered  leaves  lie  dead ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrub  the  jay, 
And   from  the   wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through   all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately 

sprung  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  I 
Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves ;  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie  ;  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  wild-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow  ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn  beauty  stood. 
Till  fell  the  frost  flrom  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the 

plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  upland, 

glade  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day,  as  still  such  days 

will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home, 
4» 


43  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the 

trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill> 
The  south  win^J  searches  for  the  flowers,  whose  fragrance  late 

he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side : 
In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief; 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was,  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours. 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


LESSON  XVII. 
The  Autumn  Evening. — ^Peabodt. 

Behold  the  western  evening  light ! 

It  melts  in  deepening  gloom : 
So  calmly  Christians  sink  away. 

Descending  to  the  tomb. 

The  winds  breathe  low,  the  withering  leaf 
Scarce  whispers  from  the  tree  : 

So  gently  flows  the  parting  breath. 
When  good  men  cease  to  be. 

How  beautiflil  on  all  the  hills 

The  crimson  light  is  shed ! 
*Tis  like  the  peace  the  Christian  give* 

To  mourners  round  his  bed. 

How  mildly,  on  the  wandering  cloud, 

The  sunset  beam  is  cast ! 
*Tis  lijce  the  memory  left  behind, 

When  loved  ones  breathe  their  last 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  43 

And  now,  above  the  dews  of  night, 

The  yellow  star  appears : 
So  faith  springs  in  the  hearts  of  thoee 

Whose  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears. 

But  soon  the  morning's  happier  light 

Its  glories  shall  restore ; 
And  eyelids,  that  are  sealed  in  death, 

Shall  ope,  to  close  no  more. 


LESSON  XVIII, 
Autumn  Woods. — Bryant. 

Ere,  in  the  northern  gale. 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  autumn,  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold. 
In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings  in  purple  and  gold. 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow, — 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 
In  these  bright  walks ;  the  sweet  south-west,  at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strewn 

Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while. 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 


44  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, — 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet,— 
So  grateful,  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 
Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ; 
Their  sunny-colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze, 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 
Where,  bickering  through  the  shrubs,  its  waters  run, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen. 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

Beneath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame. 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

O  Autumn,  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad,— 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon. 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad  ? 

Ah !  'twere  a  lot  too  blest 
Forever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray, 
Amidst  the  kisses  of  the  soft  south-west 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye ; 

And  leave  the  vain,  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and  power, 
Tho  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  45 

LESSON  XIX. 

Instability  of  Character. — Alison. 

Wherever  we  turn  our  eyes  upon  the  wodd,  we  meet 
with  men,  who  seem  never  to  have  formed  to  themselves  any 
fixed  plan,  either  of  irtellectual  or  moral  pursuit,  and  who 
suffer  themselves  to  be  led  by  no  other  principles  than  those 
of  constitutional  humor  or  casual  caprice.  Even  with  ex- 
cellent powers  of  understanding,  they  are  ever  changing 
their  studies  and  their  designs  ;  attracted  by  what  is  new  in 
knowledge,  rather  than  by  what  is  useful,  and  seemingly 
unconscious  of  any  other  ends  of  science  or  of  learning, 
than  to  amuse  the  passing  hour.  They  are,  still  more  fre- 
quently, inconstant  and  unstable  in  their  affections ;  perpet- 
ually changing  their  connexions,  their  companions  and  their 
friendships,  and  violating  often  the  finest,  as  well  as  the  mosi 
Bacred  ties  of  life,  less  from  violence  of  passion,  than  from 
mere  levity  and  fickleness  of  mind.  Their  time,  their  tal- 
ents, their  advantages,  whether  of  power  or  of  wealth,  are  all 
consumed  rather  than  employed;  and  life,  at  last,  often 
closes  upon  them,  before  they  are  conscious  either  for  what 
it  was  given,  or  what  will  be  required.       •       •       •       • 

The  necessities  of  nature,  whatever  the  idle  and  the  quer- 
ulous may  think,  are  ever  friendly  to  human  character,  and 
almost  unavoidably  produce  some  degree  of  steadiness  of 
purpose,  and  energy  of  pursuit.  They,  whose  labor  is, 
every  day,  to  provide  for  the  day  that  is  passing,  have  an 
object  from  which  they  are  not  permitted  to  deviate,  which 
summons  their  powers  into  continual  activity,  and  which 
insensibly  gives  to  their  general  character  the  same  features 
of  steadiness  and  of  energy.  Even  in  the  middle  conditions 
of  life,  among  those  who,  in  the  various  professions  and  oc- 
cupations which  cultivated  society  creates,  are  providing  for 
themselves  and  for  their  families,  this  character  of  instability 
is  seldom  found.  The  virtuous  and  important  purpose  they 
have  in  view, — the  habits  of  foresight  and  activity  which  aro 
demanded, — the  rivalship  with  their  fellow  candidates  for 
profit  or  for  praise, — all  tend  to  form  them  to  some  strength 


46  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

and  energy  of  mind,  and,  whatever  may  be  the  other  fail- 
ings to  which  they  are  exposed,  at  least  to  save  them  from 
caprice  and  instability. 

It  is  among  those,  to  whom  fortune  and  education  have 
given  every  means  to  improve,  and  every  power  to  bless  hu- 
manity, that  this  character  of  weakness  is,  unhappily,  most 
frequently  to  be  found.  They,  who,  in  their  early  years, 
have  never  felt  the  necessities  of  life,— to  whom  "  to-morrow 
has  always  been  as  to-day,  and  yet  more  abundant," — and 
who  see  themselves,  at  once,  in  possession  of  all  that  other 
men  are  struggling  to  acquire, — are  raised  above  the  influence 
of  those  motives  which  animate  the  activity  of  the  generality 
of  men.  The  pressure  is  removed,  which  usually  hardens 
the  human  character  into  any  degree  of  consistence  and 
solidity. 

It  may  be  right  in  others,  they  think,  to  labor ; — it  is  right 
in  them  to  enjoy.  Others  are  bound  to  direct  all  their  talents 
to  one  purpose  or  end ; — they  are  happily  free  from  the 
thraldom, — and  the  whole  circle  of  human  pleasures  and 
pursuits  is  thrown  open  to  them,  in  which  they  may  range 
at  will.  It  may  be  honorable  in  humbler  men,  they  imagine, 
to  devote  themselves  to  the  sober  path  of  duty.  In  them,  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  honorable  to  avail  themselves  of  the  advan- 
tages, which  nature  has  given  them  ;  and,  in  a  gay  exemption 
from  all  serious  pursuits,  to  exhibit  to  a  lower  world  the 
envied  privilege  of  their  rank. 

Amid  such  impressions,  the  first  foundations  of  this  fataJ 
weakness  of  character  are  laid.  While  neither  necessity  nor 
duty  seems  as  yet  to  compel  them  to  form  any  settled  plans  of 
pursuit  or  of  conduct,  they  naturally  yield  themselves  to  the 
more  pleasing  guidance  of  imagination ;  and  the  character 
of  their  understanding  soon  marks  the  incompetence  of  the 
gnide.  The  regular  paths  of  science  seem  too  laborious  and 
too  tedious  for  their  attempt.  They  satisfy  themselves, 
therefore,  with  the  acquisition  of  some  loose  and  superficial 
knowledge.  The  sober  details  of  business  seem  beneath 
their  regard,  and  can  always  be  devolved  upon  some  inferior 
or  friend ;  and  even  in  the  acquisitions  which  are  made,  it  is 
the  new,  the  splendid,  or  the  fashionable,  that  is  sought,  i&. 
stead  of  the  solid  or  the  useful.     The  habits  of  levity  and 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  47 

(iaprice,  thus  too  naturally  begun,  gain  insensibly  a  progre*. 
sive  influence  over  their  minds;  and  thus  youth,  and  the 
irrecoverable  years  of  youth,  are  often  passed,  not  in  vice, 
perhaps,  but  in  frivolous  amusements,  or,  wh?Li  is  worse  than 
these,  in  frivolous  and  unmanly  pursuits. 


LESSON  XX. 

T7ie  same, — concluded. 

This  disposition  of  mind  unfits  men,  in  a  singular  manner, 
for  the  performance  of  their  parts  in  social  life.  Whatever 
may  be  the  opinions  of  youth,  life  cannot  proceed  far  without 
bringing  with  it  many  serious  duties  to  all; — scenes,  where 
labor,  perseverance  and  self-denial  must  be  exerted,  and 
where  the  character  is  brought  to  a  severe  and  unsparing 
trial.  For  these  scenes  of  trial,  the  men  of  the  unstable 
character,  we  are  considering,  are,  unhappily,  little  fitted. 
They  want  all  the  habits  of  thought  and  of  activity,  which 
are  requisite  for  honor  and  success.  It  is  "  an  armor  which 
they  have  not  proved  ;"  and  they  thus  enter  upon  the  eventful 
field  of  life,  with  all  its  private  and  public  duties,  unarmed 
for  the  rude  struggle,  which  is  every  where  prepared  for 
them. 

They  begin  then,  perhaps,  to  lament  the  levity  and 
thoughtlessness  of  their  former  days ;  but  youth  and  all  its 
invaluable  hours  are  gone ;  habits  have  acquired  dominion ; 
— others  are  passing  them  in  the  road  of  fame  and  honor ; — 
and,  shrinking  from  a  contest  in  which  they  no  longer  dare 
hope  for  success,  they  finally  retire  to  hide  their  disgrace  in 
indolence  and  obscurity.  From  this  melancholy  period,  the 
character  sinks  every  day  more  deeply  down  into  insignifi- 
cance and  uselessness.  The  poor  remainder  of  life  is  given 
to  frivolous  pursuits  or  capricious  amusements ;  and,  not 
unfrequently,  their  gray  hairs  are  disgraced,  by  vainly  imi- 
tating the  follies  and  the  levities  of  youth. 

It  is  with  still  more  fatal  consequences  that  this  disposition 
IS  attended,  in  respect  to  moral  excellecce.     In  a  world  such 


48  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

as  this,  in  which  the  beneficence  of  the  Almighty  halh 
opened  so  many  sources  of  enjoyment,  it  requires,  in  every 
situation,  the  steady  employment  of  faith  and  of  fortitude  to 
withstand  their  assault ;  and  no  discipline  can  ever  lead  tD 
honor  and  to  virtue,  but  that  w^hich  inspires  resolution,  and 
habituates  to  self-command.  In  this  respect,  too,  the  men  of 
this  unstable  character  come  singularly  unprepared  for  the 
combat.  The  scenes,  in  which  they  have  been  engaged, 
have  nurtured  no  firmness  or  energy  of  mind.  No  great 
objects  of  pursuit  have  opened  upon  them,  which  might  ani- 
mate voluntary  exertion ;  and,  what  is  perhaps  of  more  conr 
sequence,  in  the  same  proportion,  in  which  the  active  powers 
of  their  minds  have  been  unemployed,  their  passive  sensibilities 
to  pleasure  have  been  increased. 

To  dispositions  thus  diseased,  the  simple  pleasures,  and 
the  sober  tranquillities  of  domestic  virtue,  are  ill  adapted. 
Their  habits  have  accustomed  them  to  freedom  of  pursuit, 
and  variety  of  indulgence ;  and  they  tire,  in  the  midst  of 
happiness,  merely  from  the  sameness  of  possession.  Other 
amusements  are  looked  for  ; — gayer  associates  are  soon  found ; 
— and  vice,  ever  in  the  rear  of  folly,  begins,  by  unmarked 
steps,  to  take  final  possession  of  the  heart.  It  is  at  this  fatal 
period,  that  the  sad  effects  of  this  disposition  upon  the  hap- 
piness of  social  life  begin  to  display  themselves ;  and  that  all 
the  sacred  duties  of  domestic  life  are  sometimes  seen  to  be 
sacrificed  without  remorse. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary,  I  feel,  to  add,  that  this  instability 
of  character  is  equally  fatal  to  human  happiness.  If  it  be 
in  such  vices  as  have  been  described,  that  the  character 
finally  ends,  it  were  a  treachery  to  nature  and  to  virtue,  to 
speak  of  happiness  along  with  them.  Even  upon  the  most 
favorable  supposition,  though  nothing  more  than  weakness 
and  indolence  should  be  the  result,  there  are  still  considera- 
tions which  it  is  hard  to  bear.  Every  man  has  some  sense 
of  what  God  and  the  world  require  of  him  ; — some  conscious- 
ness, however  indistinct,  of  the  purposes  for  which  the  mighty 
advantages  of  nature  and  fortune  were  given :  and  to  every 
man,  time,  as  it  passes,  has  a  voice  which  no  mortal  heart 
can  forget.  It  seems  to  ask  us  what  we  have  done,  and 
what  we  are  doing ;  and,  in  every  periodical  return,  it  leaves, 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  49 

inevitably,  "that  bitterness  of  joy  which  the  heart  alone 
knoweth." 

It  is  painful  to  us  all,  we  know,  to  lie  down  at  night,  and 
think  that  the  duties  of  the  day  have  not  been  done.  It  is 
more  painful  to  close  the  year,  and  to  think  that  it  has  been 
wasted  in  idleness  and  folly.  But  what,  alas !  must  be  the 
feelings  of  those,  who  lie  down  at  last  upon  the  bed  of  death, 
and  look  back  upon  their  past  lives  with  no  remembrances 
of  goodness !  who  can  recall  only  riches  wasted,  and  power 
abused,  and  talents  misemployed, — and  see  that  grave  open- 
ing to  receive  them,  upon  which  no  tear  will  be  shed,  and  no 
memorial  of  virtue  raised  ! 

Let  it  then  be  remembered,  even  in  the  midst  of  youth  and 
of  prosperity,  that  life  hath  its  duties  as  well  as  its  pleasures ; 
and  that  no  situation  can  exempt  the  Christian  from  the  ob- 
ligations of  labor  and  of  exertion.  Let  it  be  remembered, 
that  weakness  is  ever  the  parent  of  vice  ;  and  that  it  is  in  the 
genial  hours  of  youth,  that  all  those  habits  of  thought  and  of 
conduct  are  acquired,  which  determme  the  happiness  or  the 
misery  of  future  days.  Let  it,  lastly,  be  remembered,  that 
all  the  honors  of  time  and  of  eternity  belong  only  to  wisdom 
and  perseverance. 


LESSON  XXI. 

Stability  of  Character. — Alison. 

Stability  of  character  is,  in  all  pursuits,  the  surest  foun- 
dation of  success.  It  is  a  common  error  of  the  indolent  and 
the  imprudent,  to  attribute  the  success  of  others  to  some 
peculiar  talents,  or  original  superiority  of  mind,  which  is  not 
to  be  found  in  the  g»:;nerality  of  men.  Of  the  falseness  of 
this  opinion,  the  slightest  observation  of  human  life  may  sat- 
isfy us.  The  difference  of  talents,  indeed,  and  the  varieties 
of  original  character,  may  produce  a  difference  in  the  aims 
and  in  the  designs  of  men ;  and  superior  minds  will  naturally 
form  to  themselves  superior  objects  of  ambition.  But  the 
attainment  of  these  ends,  the  accomplishment  of  these  d©- 
5 


50  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

signs,  is,  in  all  cases,  the  consequence  of  one  means  alone,— 
that  of  steadfastness  and  perseverance  in  pursuit. 

"  It  is  the  hand  of  the  diligent,"  saith  the  wise  man, ''  that 
maketh  rich."  It  is  the  same  diligence,  when  directed  to 
other  ends,  that  maketh  great.  Every  thing  which  we  see 
with  admiration  in  the  world  around  us,  or  of  which  we  read 
with  delight  in  the  annals  of  history, — the  acquisitions  of 
knowledge,  the  discoveries  of  science,  the  powers  of  art,  the 
glories  of  arms,  the  dignities  of  private,  or  the  splendors  of 
pubhc  virtue, — all  have  sprung  from  the  same  fountain  of  mind, 
from  that  steady  but  unseen  perseverance,  which  has  been 
exerted  in  their  pursuit.  The  possession  of  genius  alone,  is, 
alas  !  no  certain  herald  of  success ;  and  how  many  melan- 
choly instances  has  the  world  afforded  to  us  all,  of  how  little 
avail  mere  natural  talents  are  to  the  prosperity  of  their 
possessors,  and  of  the  frequency  with  which  they  have  led 
to  ruin  and  disgrace,  when  unaccompanied  with  firmness  and 
energy  of  mind  ! 

This  stability  of  character  is  the  surest  promise  of  honor. 
It  supposes,  indeed,  all  the  qualities  of  mind  that  are  regarded 
by  the  world  with  respect ;  and  which  constitute  the  honora- 
ble and  dignified  in  human  character.  It  supposes  that 
profound  sense  of  duty,  which  we  every  where  look  for  as 
the  foundation  of  virtue,  and  for  the  want  of  which  no  other 
attainments  can  ever  compensate.  It  supposes  a  chastened 
and  regulated  imagination,  which  looks  ever  to  "  the  things 
that  are  excellent,"  and  which  is  incapable  of  being  diverted 
from  their  pursuit,  either  by  the  intoxications  of  prosperous, 
or  the  depressions  of  adverse  fortune.  It  supposes,  still 
more,  a  firm  and  intrepid  heart,  which  neither  pleasure  has 
been  able  to  seduce,  nor  indolence  to  enervate,  nor  danger  to 
intimidate  ;  and  which,  in  many  a  scene  of  trial,  and  under 
many  severities  of  discipline,  has  hardened  itself  at  last  into 
the  firmness  and  consistency  of  virtue. 

A  character  of  this  kind  can  never  be  looked  upon  without 
admiration  ;  and,  wherever  we  meet  it,  whether  amid  the 
solendors  of  prosperity,  or  the  severities  of  adversity,  we  feel 
ourselves  disposed  to  pay  it  a  pure  and  an  unbidden  homage. 
The  display  of  wild  and  unregulated  talents  may  sometimes, 
indeed,  excite  a  temporary  admiration  ;  but  it  is  the  admira- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  51 

tion  we  pay  to  the  useless  glare  of  the  meteor,  which  is 
extinguished  while  it  is  beheld ;  while  the  sentiment  we  feel 
for  the  steady  course  of  principled  virtue,  is  the  admiration 
with  which  we  regard  the  majestic  path  of  the  sun,  as  he 
slowly  pursues  his  way,  to  give  light  and  life  to  nature. 

This  stability  of  character  is,  in  another  view,  the  surest 
foundation  of  happiness.  There  are,  doubtless,  many  ways 
in  which  our  happiness  is  dependent  upon  the  conduct  and 
the  sentiments  of  others  ;  but  the  great  and  perennial  source 
of  every  man's  happiness  is  in  his  own  bosom, — in  that 
secret  fountain  of  the  heart,  from  which  the  "  waters  of  joy 
or  of  bitterness"  perpetually  flow. 

It  is  from  this  source,,  the  man  of  steadfast  and  persevering 
virtue  derives  his  peculiar  happiness ;  and  the  slightest 
recurrence  to  our  own  experience  can  tell  us  both  its  nature 
and  its  degree.  It  is  pleasing,  we  all  know,  to  review  the 
day  that  is  past,  and  to  think  that  its  duties  have  been  done ; 
to  think  that  the  purpose,  with  which  we  rose,  has  been 
accomplished ;  that,  in  the  busy  scene  which  surrounds  us, 
we  have  done  our  part,  and  that  no  temptation  has  been  able 
to  subdue  our  firmness  and  our  resolution.  Such  are  the 
sentiments  with  which,  in  every  year  of  life,  and  still  more 
in  that  solemn  moment  when  life  is  drawing  to  its  close,  the 
man  of  persevering  virtue  is  able  to  review  the  time  that  is 
past.  It  lies  before  him,  as  it  were,  in  order  and  regularity; 
and,  while  he  travels  over  again  the  various  stages  of  his 
progress,  memory  restores  to  him  many  images  to  soothe  and 
to  animate  his  heart.  The  days  of  trial  are  past ;  the  hard- 
ships he  has  suffered,  the  labors  he  has  undergone,  are 
remembered  no  more  ;  but  his  good  deeds  remain,  and  from 
the  grave  of  time  seem  to  rise  up  again  to  bless  him,  and  to 
speak  to  him  of  peace  and  hope. 

Such  are,  then,  the  consequences  of  firmness  and  stability 
of  character  ;  and  such  the  rewards  which  he  may  look  for, 
who,  solemnly  devoting  himself  to  the  discharge  of  the 
duties  of  that  station  or  condition  which  Providence  has 
assigned  him,  pursues  them  with  steady  and  undeviating 
labor.  It  is  the  character  which  unites  all  that  is  valuable 
or  noble  in  human  life,  the  tranquillity  of  conscience,  the 
honors  of  wisdom,  and  the  dignity  of  virtue. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  XXII. 
The  first  Wanderer. — Maria  J.  Jewsbury. 

Creation's  heir  ! — the  first,  the  last, 

That  knew  the  world  his  own ; — 
Yet  stood  he,  mid  his  kingdom  vast, 

A  fugitive — o'erthrown  ! 
Faded  and  fi-ail  his  glorious  form. 

And  changed  his  soul  within. 
Whilst  Fear  and  Sorrow,  Strife  and  Storm, 

Told  the  dark  secret — Sin  I 

Unaided  and  alone  on  earth. 

He  bade  the  heavens  give  ear ; — 
But  every  star  that  sang  his  birth, 

Kept  silence  in  its  sphere : 
He  saw,  round  Eden's  distant  steep. 

Angelic  legions  stray ; — 
Alas !  he  knew  them  sent  to  keep 

His  guilty  foot  away. 

Then,  reckless,  turned  he  to  his  own, — 

The  world  before  him  spread ; — 
But  Nature's  was  an  altered  tone, 

And  breathed  rebuke  and  dread : 
Fierce  thunder-peal,  and  rocking  gale. 

Answered  the  storm-swept  sea. 
Whilst  crashing  forests  joined  the  wail ; 

And  all  said—"  Cursed  for  thee." 

This,  spoke  the  lion's  prowling  roar, 

And  this,  the  victim's  cry  ; 
This,  written  in  defenceless  gore, 

Forever  met  his  eye : 
And  not  alone  each  sterner  power 

Proclaimed  just  Heaven's  decree,— 
The  faded  leaf,  the  dying  flower. 

Alike  said—"  Cursed  for  thee." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  53 

Though  mortal,  doomed  to  many  a  length 

Of  life's  now  narrow  span, 
Sons  rose  around  in  pride  and  strength ; — 

They,  too,  proclaimed  the  ban. 
'Twas  heard,  amid  their  hostile  spears, 

Seen,  in  the  murderer's  doom. 
Breathed,  from  the  widow's  sftent  tears, 

Felt,  in  the  infant's  tomb. 

Ask  not  the  wanderer's  after-fate, 

His  being,  birth,  or  name, — 
Enough  that  all  have  shared  his  state, 

That  man  is  still  the  same. 
Still  brier  and  thorn  his  life  o'ergrow. 

Still  strives  his  soul  within  ; 
Whilst  Care,  and  Pain,  and  Sorrow  show 

The  same  dark  secret — Sin. 


LESSON  XXIIL 
The  Village  Crrave-Yard. — Greenwood. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  fine  month  of  October,  I  was 
travelling,  with  a  friend,  in  one  of  our  Northern  States,  on  a 
tour  of  recreation  and  pleasure.  We  were  tired  of  the  city, 
its  noise,  its  smoke,  and  its  unmeaning  dissipation ;  and,  with 
the  feelings  of  emancipated  prisoners,  we  had  been  breathing, 
for  a  few  weeks,  the  perfume  of  the  vales,  and  the  elastic 
atmosphere  of  the  uplands.  Some  minutes  before  the  sun- 
set of  a  most  lovely  day,  we  entered  a  neat  little  village, 
whose  tapering  spire  we  had  caught  sight  of,  at  intervals,  an 
hour  before,  as  our  road  made  an  unexpected  turn,  or  led  us 
to  the  top  of  a  hill.  Having  no  motive  to  urge  a  farther 
progress,  and  being  unwilling  to  ride  in  an  unknown  country 
after  night-fall,  we  stopped  at  the  inn,  and  determined  to 
lodge  there. 

Leaving  my  companion  to  arrange  our  accommodations 
with  the  landlord,  I  strolled  on  towards  the  meeting-house. 
5* 


54  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Its  situation  had  attracted  my  notice.  There  was  much  more 
taste  and  beauty  in  it  than  is  common.  It  did  not  stand,  as 
I  have  seen  some  meeting-houses  stand,  in  the  most  frequent- 
ed part  of  the  village,  blockaded  by  wagons  and  horses,  with 
■a  court-house  before  it,  an  engine-house  behind  it,  a  store- 
house under  it,  and  a  tavern  on  each  side  ;  it  stood  away 
from  all  these  things,  as  it  ought,  and  was  placed  on  a  spot 
of  gently  rising  ground,  a  short  distance  from  the  main  road, 
at  the  end  of  a  green  lane,  and  so  near  to  a  grove  of  oaks 
and  walnuts,  that  one  of  the  foremost  and  largest  trees 
brushed  against  the  pulpit  window.  On  the  left,  and  lower 
down,  there  was  a  fertile  meadow,  through  which  a  clear 
brook  wound  its  course,  fell  over  a  rock,  and  then  hid  itself 
in  the  thickest  part  of  the  grove.  A  little  to  the  right  of  the 
meeting-house  was  the  grave-yard. 

I  never  shun  a  grave-yard.  The  thoughtful  melancholy, 
which  it  inspires,  is  grateful,  rather  than  disagreeable  to  me. 
It  gives  me  no  pain  to  tread  on  the  green  roof  of  that  dark 
mansion,  whose  chambers  I  must  occupy  so  soon;  and  I 
often  wander,  from  choice,  to  a  place  where  there  is  neither 
solitude  nor  society.  Something  human  is  there ;  but  the  folly, 
the  bustle,  the  vanities,  the  pretensions,  the  competitions,  the 
pride  of  humanity,  are  gone.  Men  are  there;  but  their 
passions  are  hushed,  and  their  spirits  are  still : — malevolence 
has  lost  its  power  of  harming ;  appetite  is  sated,  ambition 
lies  low,  and  lust  is  cold ;  anger  has  done  raving,  all  disputes 
are  ended,  all  revelry  is  over  ;  the  fellest  animosity  is  deeply 
buried,  and  the  most  dangerous  sins  are  safely  confined  by 
the  thickly-piled  clods  of  the  valley ;  vice  is  dumb  and  pow- 
erless, and  virtue  is  waiting,  in  silence,  for  the  trump  of  the 
archangel,  and  the  voice  of  God. 

I  never  shun  a  grave-yard,  and  I  entered  this.  There 
were  trees  growing  in  it,  here  and  there,  though  it  was  not 
regularly  planted ;  and  I  thought  that  it  looked  better  than  if 
it  had  been.  The  only  paths  were  those,  which  had  been 
worn  by  the  slow  feet  of  sorrow  and  sympathy,  as  they  fol- 
lowed love  and  friendship  to  the  grave :  and  this,  too,  was 
well ;  for  I  dislike  a  smoothly  rolled  gravel-walk  in  a  pla^se 
like  this.  In  a  corner  of  the  ground  rose  a  gentle  knoll,  the 
top  of  which  was  covered  by  a  clump  of  pines.     Here  my 


''"  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  55 

walk  ended ;  I  threw  myself  down  on  the  slippery  couch  of 
withered  pine  leaves,  which  the  breath  of  many  winters  had 
shaken  from  the  boughs  above,  leaned  my  head  upon  my 
hand,  and  gave  myself  up  to  the  feelings,  which  the  place 
aad  the  time  excited. 

The  sun's  edge  had  just  touched  the  hazy  outlines  of  the 
western  hills ;  it  was  the  signal  for  the  breeze  to  be  hushed, 
and  it  was  breathing  like  an  expiring  infant,  softly,  and  at 
distant  intervals,  before  it  died  away.  The  trees  before  me, 
as  the  wind  passed  over  them,  waved  to  and  fro,  and  trailed 
their  long  branches  across  the  tomb-stones,  with  a  low, 
moaning  sound,  which  fell  upon  the  ear  like  the  voice  of 
grief,  and  seemed  to  utter  the  conscious  tribute  of  nature's 
sympathy,  over  the  last  abode  of  mortal  man.  A  low,  con- 
fused hum  came  from  the  village  ;  the  brook  was  murmuring 
in  the  wood  behind  me ;  and,  lulled  by  all  these  soothing 
sounds,  I  fell  asleep. 

But  whether  my  eyes  closed,  or  not,  I  am  unable  to  say ; 
for  the  same  scene  appeared  to  be  before  them ;  the  same 
trees  were  waving,  and  not  a  green  mound  had  changed 
its  form.  I  was  still  contemplating  the  same  trophies  of  the 
unsparing  victor,  the  same  mementoes  of  human  evanescence. 
Some  were  standing  upright ;  others  were  inclined  to  the 
ground;  some  were  sunk  so  deeply  in  the  earth,  that  their  blue 
tops  were  just  visible  above  the  long  grass  which  surrounded 
them;  and  others  were  spotted  or  covered  with  the  thin 
yellow  moss  of  the  grave-yard.  I  was  reading  the  inscriptions 
on  the  stones  which  were  nearest  to  me  :  they  recorded  the 
virtues  of  those  who  slept  beneath  them,  and  told  the  travel- 
ler that  they  hoped  for  a  happy  rising. 

Ah !  said  I — or  I  dreamed  that  I  said  so — this  is  the 
testimony  of  wounded  hearts — the  fond  belief  of  that  affec- 
tion, which  remembers  error  and  evil  no  longer  ;  but  could 
the  grave  give  up  its  dead — could  they,  who  have  been  brought 
to  these  cold,  dark  houses,  go  back  again  into  the  land  of  the 
living,  and  once  more  number  the  days  which  they  had 
spent  there — how  differently  would  they  then  spend  them  ! 
and  when  they  came  to  die,  how  much  firmer  would  be  their 
hope !  and  when  they  were  again  laid  in  the  ground,  how 
much  more  faithful  would  be  the  tales,  which  these  same 


56  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Stones  would  tell  over  them !  The  epitaph  of  praise  would  be 
well  deserved  by  their  virtues,  and  the  silence  of  partiality 
no  longer  required  for  their  sins. 

I  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  the  ground  began  to  tremble 
beneath  me.  Its  motion,  hardly  perceptible  at  first,  increased 
every  moment  in  violence,  and  it  soon  heaved  and  struggled 
fearfully ;  while  in  the  short  quiet,  between  shock  and  shock, 
I  heard  such  unearthly  sounds,  that  the  very  blood  in  my 
heart  felt  cold  ;  subterraneous  cries  and  groans  issued  from 
every  part  of  the  grave-yard,  and  these  were  mingled  with  a 
hollow,  crashing  noise,  as  if  the  mouldering  bones  were 
bursting  from  their  coffins. 

Suddenly  all  these  sounds  stopped;  the  earth  on  each 
grave  was  thrown  up  ;  and  human  figures,  of  every  age,  and 
clad  in  the  garments  of  death,  rose  from  the  ground,  and 
stood  by  the  side  of  their  grave-stones.  Their  arms  were 
crossed  upon  their  bosoms  ;  their  countenances  were  deadly 
pale,  and  raised  to  heaven.  The  looks  of  the  young  children 
alone  were  placid  and  unconscious  ;  but  over  the  features  of 
all  the  rest,  a  shadow  of  unutterable  meaning  passed  and 
repassed,  as  their  eyes  turned  with  terror  from  the  open 
graves,  and  strained  anxiously  upward.  Some  appeared  to 
be  more  calm  than  others  :  and  when  they  looked  above,  it 
was  with  an  expression  of  more  confidence,  though  not  less 
humility  ;  but  a  convulsive  shuddering  was  on  the  frames  of 
all,  and  on  their  faces  that  same  shadow  of  unutterable 
meaning.  While  they  stood  thus,  I  perceived  that  their 
bloodless  lips  began  to  move  ;  and,  though  I  heard  no  voice, 
I  knew,  by  the  motion  of  their  lips,  that  the  word  would  have 
been — Pardon ! 

But  this  did  not  continue  long  :  they  gradually  became 
more  fearless  ;  their  features  acquired  the  appearance  of  se- 
curity, and  at  last  of  indifference  ;  the  blood  came  to  their 
lips  ;  the  shuddering  ceased,  and  the  shadow  passed  away. 

And  now  the  scene  before  me  changed.  The  tombs  and 
grave-stones  had  been  turned,  I  knew  not  how,  into  dwell- 
ings ;  and  the  grave-yard  became  a  village.  Every  now  and 
then,  I  caught  a  view  of  the  same  faces  and  forms,  which  I 
had  seen  before ;  but  other  passions  were  traced  upon  their 
faces,  and  their  forms  were  no  longer  clad  in  the  garments 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  57 

of  death.  The  silence  of  their  still  prayer  was  succeeded 
by  the  sounds  of  labor,  and  society,  and  merriment.  Some- 
times, I  could  see  them  meet  together  with  inflamed  features 
and  angry  words ;  and  sometimes  I  distinguished  the  outcry 
of  violence,  the  oath  of  passion,  and  the  blasphemy  of  sin. 
And  yet  there  were  a  few,  who  would  often  come  to  the 
threshold  of  their  dwellings,  and  lift  their  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  utter  the  still  prayer  of  pardon ;  while  others,  passing  by, 
would  mock  them. 

I  was  astonished  and  grieved,  and  was  just  going  to  ex- 
press my  feelings,  when  I  perceived,  by  my  side,  a  beautiful 
and  majestic  form,  taller  and  brighter  than  the  sons  of  men, 
and  it  thus  addressed  me  :  "Mortal,  thou  hast  now  seen  the 
frailty  of  thy  race,  and  learned  that  thy  thoughts  were  vain. 
Even  if  men  should  be  wakened  from  their  cold  sleep,  and 
raised  from  the  grave,  the  world  would  still  be  full  of  entice- 
ment and  trials ;  appetite  would  solicit,  and  passion  would 
burn,  as  strongly  as  before  ;  the  imperfections  of  their  nature 
would  accompany  their  return,  and  the  commerce  of  life 
would  soon  obliterate  the  recollection  of  death.  It  is  only 
when  this  scene  of  things  is  exchanged  for  another,  that  new 
gifts  will  bestow  new  powers,  that  higher  objects  will  banish 
low  desires,  that  the  mind  will  be  elevated  by  celestial  con*- 
verse,  the  soul  be  endued  with  immortal  vigor,  and  man  be 
prepared  for  the  course  of  eternity." 

The  angel  then  turned  from  me,  and,  with  a  voice  which 
I  hear  even  now,  cried,  "  Back  to  your  graves,  ye  frail  ones  ! 
and  rise  no  more,  till  the  elements  are  melted."  Immediately 
a  sound  swept  by  me,  like  the  rushing  wind;  the  dwellings 
shrunk  back  into  their  original  forms,  and  I  was  left  alone 
in  the  grave-yard,  with  nought  but  the  silent  stones  and  the 
whispering  trees  around  me. 

The  sun  had  long  been  down ;  a  few  of  the  largest  stars 
were  timidly  beginning  to  shine,  the  bats  had  left  their  lurking 
places,  my  cheek  was  wet  with  the  dew,  and  I  was  chilled  by 
the  breath  of  evening.     I  arose,  and  returned  to  the  inn. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  XXIV. 

Consumption. — J.  G.   Percival. 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 
When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  away, 
When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone. 
And  the  tint  that  glowed,  and  the  eye  that  shone, 
And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 
And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower. 
That  ever  in  PsBstum's  garden  blew, 
Or  ever  was  steeped  in  fragrant  dew, — 
When  all,  that  was  bright  and  fair,  is  fled. 
But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

Oh !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  Beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  withered  rose  j 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallowed  rays. 
And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 
Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye, 
Like  a  cloud,  whereon  the  queen  of  night 
Has  poured  her  softest  tint  of  light ; 
And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue. 
Where  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 
The  snow  of  her  pale  and  tender  cheek ; 
And  there  are  tones,  that  sweetly  speak 
Of  a  spirit  who  longs  for  a  purer  day. 
And  is  ready  to  wing  her  flight  away. 

In  the  flush  of  youth,  and  the  spring  of  feeling,- 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealing 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path. 
And  all  the  endearments,  that  Pleasure  hath. 
Are  poured  from  her  full,  o'erflowing  horn. 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn,— 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song, 
The  maiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK, 

And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound, 
Where  a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit. 
With  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit, 
And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core, 
And  the  heart,  in  its  fulness,  flowing  o'er 
With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repressed  ; 
For  short  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast : — 
In  this  enlivened  and  gladsome  hour. 
The  spirit  may  burn  with  a  brighter  power ; 
But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day. 
When  the  Heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining. 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper,  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath. 
When  it  comes  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose  ; 
And  the  lip,  that  swelled  with  a  living  glow. 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fallen  snow ; 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair, 
But  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there, — 
When  the  tide  of  life  from  its  secret  dwelling, 
In  a  sudden  gush,  is  deeply  swelling, 
And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips. 
Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 
As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too. 
As  the  clouds  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 
That  seem  like  a  host  of  glory  met 
To  honor  the  sun  at  his  golden  set : — 
Oh!  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 
How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  one  cling ! 

So  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 
Where  the  glassy  vapor  cheats  his  eyes. 
And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 
And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 


^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 
Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 
And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled, 
And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 
Her  eye  still  beams  unwonted  fires, 
With  a  woman's  love  and  a  saint's  desires. 
And  her  last,  fond,  lingering  look  is  given 
To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  Heaven, 
As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 
To  a  purer  world  and  a  brighter  day. 


LESSON  XXV. 

The  Wife. — Washington  Irving. 

I  have  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude,  with 
which  women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of 
fortune.  Those  disasters,  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a 
man,  and  prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the 
energies  of  the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and 
elevation  to  their  character,  that,  at  times,  it  approaches  to 
sublimity.  Nothing  can  be  more  touching,  than  to  behold 
a  soft  and  tender  female,  who  had  been  all  weakness  and 
dependence,  and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness,  while  tread- 
ing the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  suddenly  rising  in  mental 
force  to  be  the  comforter  and  supporter  of  her  husband  u»- 
der  misfortune,  and  abiding,  with  unshrinking  firmness,  the 
bitterest  blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage 
about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when 
the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round 
it  with  its  caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shattered 
boughs ;  so  is  ^it  beautifully  ordered  by  Providence,  thai 
woman,  who  is  the  mere  dependent  and  ornament  of  man  in 
his  happier  hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten 
with  sudden  calamity ;  winding  hersfelf  into  the  rugged  re- 
cesses of  his  nature,  tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  bead, 
and  binding  up  the  broken  heart. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  61 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around  him 
a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  affection. 
'*I  can  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm, 
'*than  to  have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous, 
there  they  are  to  share  your  prosperity ;  if  otherwise,  there 
they  are  to  comfort  you."  And,  indeed,  I  have  observed 
that  a  married  man,  falling  into  misfortune,  is  more  apt  to 
retrieve  his  situation  in  the  world  than  a  single  one ;  partly, 
because  he  is  more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the  necessities 
of  the  helpless  and  beloved  beings  who  depend  upon  him  for 
subsistence ;  but  chiefly,  because  his  spirits  are  soothed  and 
relieved  by  domestic  endearments,  and  his  self-respect  is  kept 
alive  by  finding,  that  though  all  abroad  is  darkness  and 
humiliation,  yet  there  is  still  a  little  world  of  love  at  home,  of 
which  he  is  the  monarch.  Whereas  a  single  man  is  apt  to  run 
to  waste  and  self-neglect ;  to  fancy  himself  lonely  and  aban- 
doned ;  and  his  heart  to.  fall  to  ruin,  like  some  deserted  man- 
sion, for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story,  of 
which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had 
married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is 
true,  no  fortune  ;  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample,  and  he 
delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging  her  in  every  elegant 
pursuit,  and  administering  to  those  delicate  tastes  and  fancies, 
that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  the  sex.  "Her  life," 
said  he,  "shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  a  harmo- 
nious combination  :  he  was  of  a  romantic,  and  somewhat 
serious  cast ;  she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have  often 
noticed  the  mute  rapture,  with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her 
in  company,  of  which  her  sprightly  powers  made  her  the 
delight ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of  applause,  her  eye  would 
still  turn  to  him,  as  if  there  alone  she  sought  favor  and  ac- 
ceptance. When  leaning  on  his  arm,  her  slender  form 
contrasted  finely  with  his  tall,  manly  person.  The  fond, 
confiding  air,  with  which  she  looked  up  to  him,  seemed  to 
call  forth  a  flush  of  triumphant  pride  and  cherishing  tender- 
ness, as  if  he  doated  on  his  lovely  burthen  for  its  very 
helplessness.  Never  did  a  couple  set  forward,  on  the  flowery 
6 


^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK- 

path  of  early  and  well  suited  marriage,  with  a  fairer  prospect 
of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have 
embarked  his  property  in  large  speculations ;  and  he  had  not 
been  married  many  months,  when,  by  a  succession  of  sudden 
disasters,  it  was  swept  from  him,  and  he  found  himself  re- 
duced to  almost  penury.  For  a  time,  he  kept  his  situation  to 
himself,  and  went  about  with  a  haggard  countenance,  and  a 
breaking  heart.  His  life  was  but  a  protracted  agony ;  and 
what  rendered  it  more  insupportable  was,  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of  his  wife ;  for  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  her  with  the  news. 

She  saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes  of  affection,  that  all 
was  not  well  with  him.  She  marked  his  altered  looks  and  sti- 
fled sighs,  and  was  not  to  be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid 
attempts  at  cheerfulness.  She  tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers 
and  tender  blandishments  to  win  him  back  to  happiness ;  but 
she  only  drove  the  arrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he 
saw  cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing  was  the  thought 
that  he  was  soon  to  make  her  wretched.  A  little  while, 
thought  he,  and  the  smile  will  vanish  from  that  cheek  ;  the 
song  will  die  away  from  those  lips ;  the  lustre  of  those  eyes 
will  be  quenched  with  sorrow  ;  and  the  happy  heart,  which 
now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  be  weighed  down,  like 
mine,  by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me,  one  day,  and  related  his  whole 
situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  When  I  had 
heard  him  through,  I  inquired,  "  Does  your  wife  know  all 
this  ?"  At  the  question,  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 
"  For  God's  sake  !"  cried  he,  **  if  you  have  any  pity  on  me, 
don't  mention  my  wife  ;  it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives 
me  almost  to  madness !" 

"  And  why  not  V  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it,  sooner  or 
later :  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelligence 
may  break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than  if  im- 
parted by  yourself;  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften 
the  harshest  tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of 
the  comforts  of  her  sympathy ;  and  not  merely  that,  but  also 
endangering  the  only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together — 
an  unreserved  community  of  thought  and  feeling.     She  will 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  63 

soon  perceive,  that  something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your 
mind ;  and  true  love  will  not  brook  reserve :  it  feels  under- 
valued and  outraged,  when  even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves 
are  concealed  from  it." 

"  Oh !  but,  my  friend,  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give  to 
all  her  future  prospects !  how  I  am  to  strike  her  very  soul  to 
the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  beggar !  that 
she  is  to  forego  all  the  elegances  of  life,  all  the  pleasures  of 
society,  to  shrink  with  me  into  indigence  and  obscurity! 
to  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  from  the  sphere, 
in  which  she  might  have  continued  to  move  in  constant 
briglitness — the  light  of  every  eye — the  admiration  of  every 
heart !-— How  can  she  bear  poverty  t  She  has  been  brought 
up  in  all  the  refinements  of  opulence.  How  can  she  bear 
neglect  ?  She  has  been  the  idol  of  society.  Oh !  it  will  break 
her  heart — it  will  break  her  heart !" 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have  its  flow ;  for 
sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.  When  his  paroxysm  had 
subsided,  and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resum- 
ed the  subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation, 
at  once,  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but 
positively. 

"But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her?  It  is  necessary 
she  should  know'  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper  to 
the  alteration  of  your  circumstances.  You  must  change  your 
style  of  living — nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his 
countenance,  *'  don't  let  that  afflict  you.  I  am  sure  you  have 
never  placed  your  happiness  in  outward  show  ;  you  have  yet 
friends,  warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you 
for  being  less  splendidly  lodged :  and  surely  it  does  not  re- 
quire a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary — "  "I  could  be  happy 
with  her,"  cried  he,  convulsively,  "in  a  hovel ! — I  could 
go  down  with  her  into  poverty  and  the  dust ! — I  could — I 
could — God  bless  her  ! — God  bless  her !"  cried  he,  bursting 
into  a  transport  of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"  And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up  and 
grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "  believe  me,  she  can  be 
the  same  with  you.  Ay,  more :  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride 
and  triumph  to  her ;  it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies 
and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature  ;  for  she  will  rejoice  to 


64  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

prove  thai  she  loves  you  for  yourself.  There  is,  in  every  true 
woman's  heart,  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire,  which  lies  dormant 
in  the  broad  daylight  of  prosperity ;  but  which  kindles  up, 
and  beams  and  blazes,  in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity.  No 
man  knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is — no  man  knows 
what  a  ministering  angel  she  is — until  he  has  gone  with  her 
through  the  fiery  trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner, 
and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language,  that  caught  the 
excited  imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had  to 
deal  with ;  and,  following  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I 
finished  by  persuading  him  to  go  home,  and  unburtfien  his 
sad  heart  to  his  wife. 


LESSON  XXVL 
The  same, — concluded. 

I  MUST  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I  felt  some 
little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who  can  calculate  on  the 
fortitude  of  one,  whose  whole  life  has  been  a  round  of  pleas- 
ures 1  Her  gay  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark,  downward 
path  of  low  humility,  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and 
might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they  had  hitherto 
revelled.  Besides,  ruin,  in  fashionable  life,  is  accompanied 
by  so  many  galling  mortifications,  to  which,  in  other  ranks,  it 
is  a  stranger.  In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie,  the  next 
morning,  without  trepidation.     He  had  made  the  disclosure. 

"  And  how  did  she  bear  it  ?" 

"Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her 
mind ;  for  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  asked  if 
this  was  all,  that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy. — But,  poor 
girl,"  added  he,  "  she  cannot  realize  the  change  we  must 
undergo.  She  has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract : 
she  has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love. 
She  feels,  as  yet,  no  privation  :  she  suffers  no  loss  of  ac- 
customed conveniences  or  elegances.  When  we  come 
practically  to  experience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its 
petty  humiliations — then  will  be  the  real  trial." 


YOUxNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  65 

"  But,"  said  I.  "  now  that  you  have  got  over  the  severest 
task, — that  of  breaking  it  to  her, — the  sooner  you  let  the  world 
into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be  morti- 
fying ;  but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over ;  whereas 
you  otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day. 
It  is  not  poverty,  so  much  as  pretence,  that  harasses  a  ruined 
man — the  struggle  between  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty 
purse ;  the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come 
to  an  end.  Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor,  and  you  disarm 
poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie 
perfectly  prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  himself,  and,  as  to 
his  wife,  she  was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered 
fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards,  he  called  upon  me  in  the  evening. 
He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house,  and  taken  a  small 
cottage  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  He  had  been 
busied  all  day  in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new  establish- 
ment required  few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest  kind. 
All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  late  residence  had  been  sold, 
excepting  his  wife's  harp.  That,  he  said,  was  too  closely 
associated  with  the  idea  of  herself;  it  belonged  to  the  little 
story  of  their  loves ;  for  some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of 
their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned  over  that 
instrument,  and  listened  to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice. 
I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic  gallantry 
in  a  doating  husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his  wife  had 
been  all  day,  superintending  its  arrangement.  My  feelings 
had  become  strongly  interested  in  the  progress  of  this  family 
story,  and,  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany 
him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and,  as  we 
walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  musing. 

''Poor  Mary!"  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  from 
his  lips. 

"  And  what  of  her  ?"  asked  I ;  "  has  any  thing  happened  to 
her  f 

"What?"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance;  "  is  it  noth- 
ing to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation  1  to  be  caged  in  ft 
6* 


6§  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

miserable  cottage  ?  to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  meniaJ 
concerns  of  her  wretched  habitation  ?" 

"  Has  she,  then,  repined  at  the  change  ?" 

"  Repined  !  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good 
humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  have  ever 
known  her ;  she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and 
comfort !" 

"  Admirable  girl !"  exclaimed  I.  "  You  call  yourself  poor, 
my  friend  ;  you  never  were  so  rich ;  you  never  knew  the 
boundless  treasures  of  excellence  you  possessed  in  that 
woman." 

"  Oh  !  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage 
were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  this  is 
her  first  day  of  real  experience :  she  has  been  introduced 
into  an  humble  dwelling ;  she  has  been  employed  all  day  in 
arranging  its  miserable  equipments ;  she  has,  for  the  first 
time,  known  the  fatigues  of  domestic  employment ;  she  has, 
for  the  first  time,  looked  around  her  on  a  home  destitute  of 
every  thing  elegant ;  almost  of  every  thing  convenient ;  and 
may  now  be  sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless,  brooding 
over  a  prospect  of  future  poverty." 

There  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture,  that  I 
could  not  gainsay ;  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road,  up  a  narrow  lane,  so 
thickly  shaded  by  forest  trees,  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of 
seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble 
enough  in  its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and  yet 
it  had  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one 
end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage ;  a  few  trees  threw  their 
branches  gracefully  over  it ;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of 
flowers,  tastefully  disposed  about  the  door,  and  on  the  grass- 
plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket-gate  opened  upon  a  footpath, 
that  wound  through  some  shrubbery  to  the  door.  Just  as  we 
approached,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music.  Leslie  grasped 
my  arm ;  we  paused  and  listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice, 
singing,  in  a  style  of  the  most  touching  simplicity,  a  little 
air,  of  which  her  husband  was  peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  for- 
ward, to  hear  more  distinctly.     His  step  made  a  noise  on  the 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  67 

gravel-walk.  A  bright,  beautiful  face  glanced  out  at  the 
window,  and  vanished  ;  a  light  footstep  was  heard,  and  Mary 
came  tripping  forth  to  meet  us.  She  was  in  a  pretty  rural 
dress  of  white ;  a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in  her  fine 
hair ;  a  fresh  bloom  was  on  her  cheek ;  her  whole  counte- 
nance beamed  with  smiles.  I  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
lovely. 

"My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "I  am  so  glad  you  are 
come  !  I  have  been  watching  and  watching  for  you ;  and 
running  down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set 
out  a  table  under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage ;  and 
I've  been  gathering  some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries, 
for  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them ;  and  we  have  such  excel- 
lent cream,  and  every  thing  is  so  sweet  and  still  here. — Oh !" 
said  she,  putting  her  arm  within  his,  and  looking  up  brightly 
in  his  face,  "  Oh !  we  shall  be  so  happy !" 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.  He  caught  her  to  his  bosom ; 
he  folded  his  arms  round  her  ;  he  kissed  her  again  and  again  ; 
— he  could  not  speak  ;  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes ; 
and  he  has  often  assured  me,  that  though  the  world  has  since 
gone  prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has  indeed  been  a 
happy  one,  yet  never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  of  more 
exquisite  felicity 


LESSON  XXVII. 
Elysium. — Mrs.  Hemans 

Fair  wert  thou,  in  the  dreams 
Of  elder  time,  thou  land  of  glorious  flowers, 
And  summer-winds,  and  low-toned,  silvery  streams, 
Dim  with  the  shadows  of  thy  laurel-bowers ! 

Where,  as  they  passed,  bright  hours 
Left  no  faint  sense  of  parting,  such  as  clings 
To  earthly  love,  and  joy  in  loveliest  things ! 


# 


^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Fair  wert  thou,  with  the  light 
On  thy  blue  hills  and  sleepy  waters  cast, 
From  purple  skies  ne'er  deepening  into  night, 
Yet  soft,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last 

Of  glory,  fading  fast 
Along  the  mountains ! — but  thy  golden  day 
Was  not  as  those  that  warn  us  of  decay. 

And  ever,  through  thy  shades, 
A  swell  of  deep  Eolian  sound  went  by, 
From  fountain  voices  in  their  secret  glades, 
And  low  reed-whispers,  making  sweet  reply 

To  summer's  breezy  sigh ! 
And  young  leaves  trembling  to  the  wind's  light  breath, 
Which  ne'er  had  touched  them  with  a  hue  of  death ! 

And  the  transparent  sky 
Rung  as  a  dome,  all  thrilling  to  the  strain 
Of  harps  that,  midst  the  woods,  made  harmony 
Solemn  and  sweet ;  yet  troubling  not  the  brain 

With  dreams  and  yearnings  vain. 
And  dim  remembrances,  that  still  draw  birth 
From  the  bewildering  music  of  the  earth. 

And  who,  with  silent  tread. 
Moved  o'er  the  plains  of  waving  Asphodel  1 
Who,  called  and  severed  from  the  countless  dead, 
Amidst  the  shadowy  amaranth-bowers  might  dwell. 

And  listen  to  the  swell 
Of  those  majestic  hymn-notes,  and  inhale 
The  spirit  wandering  in  the  immortal  gale? 

They  of  the  sword,  whose  praise, 
With  the  bright  wine  at  nation's  feasts,  went  round ! 
They  of  the  lyre,  whose  unforgotten  lays, 
On  the  morn's  wing,  had  sent  their  mighty  sound. 

And,  in  all  regions,  found 
Their  echoes  midst  the  mountains ! — and  become, 
In  man's  deep  heart,  as  voices  of  his  home ! 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  69 

They  of  the  daring  thought ! 
Daring  and  powerful,  yet  to  dust  allied , 
Whose  flight  through  stars,  and  seas,  and  depths,  had  sought 
The  soul's  far  birth-place — but  without  a  guide ! 

Sages  and  seers,  who  died. 
And  left  the  world  their  high  mysterious  dreams, 
Born  midst  the  olive-woods,  by  Grecian  streams. 

But  they,  of  whose  abode, 
Midst  her  green  valleys,  earth  retained  no  trace. 
Save  a  flower  springing  from  their  burial-sod, 
A  shade  of  sadness  on  some  kindred  face, 

A  void  and  silent  place 
In  some  swieet  home ; — thou  hadst  no  wreaths  for  thestf 
Thou  sunny  land  !  with  all  thy  deathless  trees  I 

The  peasant,  at  his  door, 
Might  sink  to  die,  when  vintage-feasts  were  spread, 
And  songs  on  every  wind ! — From  thy  bright  shore 
No  lovelier  vision  floated  round  his  head ; 

Thou  wert  for  nobler  dead  ! 
He  heard  the  bounding  steps  which  round  him  fell, 
And  sighed  to  bid  the  festal  sun  farewell ! 

The  slave,  whose  very  tears 
Were  a  forbidden  luxury,  and  whose  breast 
Shut  up  the  woes  and  burning  thoughts  of  years, 
As  in  the  ashes  of  an  urn  comprest ; 

— He  might  not  be  thy  guest ! 
No  gentle  breathings  from  thy  distant  sky 
Came  o'er  his  path,  and  whispered,  "  Liberty !" 

Calm*  on  its  leaf-strown  bier. 
Unlike  a  gift  of  nature  to  decay, 
Too  rose-like  still,  too  beautiful,  too  dear. 
The  child  at  rest  before  its  mother  lay  ; 

E'en  so  to  pass  away. 
With  its  bright  smile ! — Elysium  !  what  wert  thou^ 
To  her,  who  wept  o'er  that  young  slumberer's  brow  ? 


fQ  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK- 

Thou  hadst  no  home,  green  land, 
For  the  fair  creature  from  her  bosom  gone. 
With  life's  first  flowers  just  opening  in  her  hand, 
And  all  the  lovely  thoughts  and  dreams  unknown, 

Which  in  its  clear  eye  shone. 
Like  the  spring's  wakening ! — But  that  light  was  pasl— 
— Where  went  the  dew-drop,  swept  before  the  blast  1 

Not  where  thy  soft  winds  played. 
Not  where  thy  waters  lay  in  glassy  sleep ! — 
Fade,  with  thy  bowers,  thou  land  of  visions,  fade ! 
From  thee  no  voice  came  o'er  the  gloomy  deep. 

And  bade  man  cease  to  weep  ! 
Fade,  with  the  amaranth  plain,  the  myrtle  grove,     ^ 
Which  could  not  yield  one  hope  to  sorrowing  love ! 

For  the  most  loved  are  they, 
■ '     Of  whom  Fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion-voice 
in  regal  hails  i  the  shades  o'erhang  their  way ; 
The  vale,  with  its  deep  fountains,  is  their  choice, 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps  ! — till  silently  they  die. 
As  a  stream  shrinks  from  summer's  burning  eye. 

And  the  world  knows  not  then, — 
Not  then,  nor  ever, — what  pure  thoughts  are  fled  ! 
Yet  these  are  they,  that,  on  the  souls  of  men. 
Come  back,  when  Night  her  folding  veil  hath  spread, 

The  long-remembered  dead  ! 
But  not  with  thee  might  aught  save  glory  dwell — 
— Fade,  fade  away,  thou  shore  of  Asphodel ! 


LESSON  XXVIII. 
Better  Moments. — Wilus. 

My  mother's  voice !  how  often  creep 
Its  accents  o'er  my  lonely  hours  ! 

Like  healing  sent  on  wings  of  sleep, 
Or  dew  to  the  unconscious  flowers. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  7| 

1  can  forget  her  melting  prayer, 

While  leaping  pulses  madly  fly  ; 
But  in  the  still,  unbroken  air, 

Her  gentle  tones  come  stealing  by, 
And  years,  and  sin,  and  manhood,  flee, 
And  leave  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

The  book  of  nature,  and  the  print 

Of  beauty  on  the  whispering  sea, 
Give  aye  to  me  some  lineament 

Of  what  I  have  been  taught  to  be. 
My  heart  is  harder,  and  perhaps 

My  manliness  hath  drunk  up  tears, 
And  there's  a  mildew  in  the  lapse 

Of  a  few  miserable  years ; 
But  nature's  book  is  even  yet 
With  all  my  mother's  lessons  writ, 

I  have  been  out,  at  eventide. 

Beneath  a  moonlit  sky  of  spring, 
When  earth  was  garnished  like  a  bride. 

And  night  had  on  her  silver  wing — 
When  bursting  leaves,  and  diamond  grass, 

And  waters  leaping  to  the  light. 
And  all  that  make  the  pulses  pass 

With  wilder  fleetness,  thronged  the  night  j 
When  all  v/as  beauty — then  have  I, 

With  friends  on  whom  my  love  is  flung, 
Like  myrrh  on  winds  of  Araby, 

Gazed  up  where  evening's  lamp  is  hung. 

And,  when  the  beauteous  spirit  there 

Flung  over  me  its  golden  chain, 
My  mother's  voice  came  on  the  air. 

Like  the  light  dropping  of  the  rain, 
Showered  on  me  from  some  silver  star:  ^' 

Then,  as  on  childhood's  bended  knee, 
I've  poured  her  low  and  fervent  prayer 

That  our  eternity  might  be. 


•33  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK 

To  rise  in  heaven,  like  stars  at  night, 
And  tread  a  living  path  of  light 

I  have  been  on  the  dewy  hills, 

When  night  was  stealing  from  the  dawn. 
And  mist  was  on  the  waking  rills, 

And  tints  were  delicately  drawn 
In  the  gray  east, — when  birds  were  waking, — 

With  a  slow  murmur,  in  the  trees. 
And  melody  by  fits  was  breaking 

Upon  the  whisper  of  the  breeze, — 
And  this  when  I  was  forth,  perchance. 
As  a  worn  reveller  from  the  dance ; — 

And  when  the  sun  sprang  gloriously 
And  freely  up,  and  hill  and  river 

Were  catching,  upon  wave  and  tree. 
The  subtile  arrows  from  his  quiver, — 

I  say,  a  voice  has  thrilled  me  then, 

Heard  on  the  still  and  rushing  light, 
Or  creeping  from  the  silent  glen, 

Like  words  from  the  departing  night — 
Hath  stricken  me,  and  I  have  pressed 

On  the  wet  grass  my  fevered  brow. 
And,  pouring  forth  the  earliest, 

First  prayer,  with  which  I  learned  to  bow. 
Have  felt  my  mother's  spirit  rush 

Upon  me,  as  in  by-past  years. 
And,  yielding  to  the  blessed  gush 

Of  my  ungovernable  tears. 
Have  risen  up — the  gay,  the  wild — 
As  humble  as  a  very  child. 


LESSON  XXIX. 

The  Mountain  of  Miseries. — Addison. 

It  is  a  celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that,  if  all  the 
misfortunes  of  mankind  were  cast  into  a  public  stock,  in 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  73 

order  to  be  equally  distributed  among  the  whole  species, 
those  who  now  think  themselves  the  most  unhappy,  would 
prefer  the  share  they  are  already  possessed  of,  before  that 
which  would  fall  to  them  by  such  a  division. 

As  I  was  ruminating  upon  this  remark,  I  insensibly  fell 
asleep;  when,  on  a  sudden,  methought  there  was  a  proclama- 
tion made  by  Jupiter,  that  every  mortal  should  bring  in  his 
griefs  and  calamities,  and  throw  them  together  in  a  heap. 
There  was  a  large  plain  appointed  for  this  purpose.  I  took  my 
stand  in  the  centre  of  it,  and  saw,  with  a  great  deal  of  pleas- 
ure, the  whole  human  species  marching  one  after  another, 
and  throwing  down  their  several  loads,  which  immediately 
grew  up  into  a  prodigious  mountain,  that  seemed  to  rise  above 
the  clouds. 

There  was  a  certain  lady,  of  a  thin,  airy  shape,  who  was 
very  active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried  a  magnifying 
glass  in  one  of  her  hands,  and  was  clothed  in  a  loose,  flowing 
robe,  embroidered  with  several  figures  of  fiends  and  spectres, 
that  discovered  themselves  in  a  thousand  chimerical  shapes, 
as  her  garment  hovered  in  the  wind.  There  was  something 
v/ild  and  distracted  in  her  looks.  Her  name  was  Fancy. 
She  led  up  every  mortal  to  the  appointed  place,  after  having 
very  officiously  assisted  him  in  making  up  his  pack,  and  lay- 
ing it  upon  his  shoulders.  My  heart  melted  within  me,  to 
see  my  fellow-creatures  groaning  under  their  respective 
burdens,  and  to  consider  that  prodigious  bulk  of  human 
calamities  which  lay  before  me. 

There  were,  however,  several  persons  who  gave  me  great 
diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I  observed  one  bringing  in  a 
fardel,  very  carefully  concealed  under  an  old  embroidered 
cloak,  which,  upon  his  throwing  it  into  the  heap,  I  discovered 
to  be  poverty.  Another,  after  a  great  deal  of  puffing,  thre\f 
down  his  luggage,  which,  upon  examining,  I  found  to  be  his 
wife. 

There  were  multitudes  of  lovers,  saddled  with  very  whimsi- 
cal burdens,  composed  of  darts  and  flames ;  but,  what  was 
very  odd,  though  they  sighed  as  if  their  hearts  would  break 
under  these  bundles  of  calamities,  they  could  not  persuade 
themselves  to  cast  them  into  the  heap,  when  they  came  up  to 
7 


74  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK, 

it;  but,  after  a  few  faint  efforts,  shook  their  heads,  and 
marched  away  as  heavy-laden  as  they  came.  I  saw  multf- 
tudes  of  old  women  throw  down  their  wrinkles,  and  several 
young  ones  strip  themselves  of  a  tawny  skin.  There  were 
very  great  heaps  of  red  noses,  large  lips,  and  rusty  teeth. 
The  truth  of  it  is,  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  greatest  part  of 
the  mountain  made  up  of  bodily  deformities.  Observing  one 
advancing  towards  the  heap,  with  a  larger  cargo  than  ordinary 
upon  his  back,  I  found,  upon  his  near  approach,  that  it  was 
only  a  natural  hump,  which  he  disposed  of,  with  great  joy  of 
heart,  among  this  collection  of  human  miseries. 

There  were  likewise  distempers  of  all  sorts;  though  I 
could  not  but  observe,  that  there  were  many  more  imaginary 
than  real.  One  little  packet  I  could  not  but  take  notice  of, 
vdiich  was  a  complication  of  all  the  diseases  incident  to  hiv 
man  nature,  and  was  in  the  hand  of  a  great  many  fine  people : 
this  was  called  the  spleen.  But  what  most  of  all  surprised 
me,  was,  that  there  was  not  a  single  vice  or  folly  thrown  into 
the  whole  heap;  at  which  I  was  very  much  astonished,  hav- 
ing concluded  within  myself,  that  every  one  would  take  this 
oppK)rtunity  of  getting  rid  of  his  passions,  prejudices,  and 
frailties. 

I  took  notice,  in  particular,  of  a  very  profligate  fellow,  who,. 
I  did  not  question,  came  loaded  with  his  crimes ;  but,  upon 
searching  into  his  bundle,  I  found,  that,  instead  of  throwing 
his  guilt  from  him,  he  had  only  laid  down  his  memory.  He 
was  followed  by  another  worthless  rogue,  who  flung  away  his 
modesty  instead  of  his  ignorance. 

When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast  their  bur- 
dens, the  phantom,  which  had  been  so  busy  on  this  occasion, 
seeing  me  an  idle  spectator  of  what  had  passed,  approached 
towards  me.  I  grew  uneasy  at  her  presence,  when,  of  a 
sudden,  she  held  her  magnifying  glass  full  before  my  eyes. 
I  no  sooner  saw  my  face  in  it,  but  I  was  startled  at  the  short- 
ness of  it,  which  now  appeared  to  me  in  its  utmost  aggrava- 
tion. The  immoderate  breadth  of  the  features  made  me 
very  much  out  of  humor  with  my  own  countenance,  upon 
which,  I  threw  it  from  me  like  a  mask.  It  happened,  very 
luckily,  that  one  who  stood  by  me  had,  just  before,  thrown 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  75 

down  his  visage,  which,  it  seems,  was  too  long  for  him.  It 
was,  indeed,  extended  to  a  most  shameful  length ;  I  believe 
the  very  chin  was,  modestly  speaking,  as  long  as  my 
whole  face. 


LESSON  XXX. 

The  same, — concluded. 

As  we  were  regarding,  very  attentively,  this  confusion  of 
miseries,  this  chaos  of  calamity,  Jupiter  issued  a  second  proc- 
lamation, that  every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange  his 
affliction,  and  to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such  other 
bundle  as  should  be  delivered  to  him. 

Upon  this,  Fancy  began  again  to  bestir  herself,  and,  par- 
celling out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible  activity,  recom- 
mended to  every  one  his  particular  packet.     The  hurry  and 

confusion,  at  this  time,  was  not  to  be  expressed It 

was  pleasant  enough  to  see  the  several  exchanges  that  were 
made,  for  sickness  against  poverty,  hunger  against  want  of 
appetite,  and  care  against  pain. 

The  female  world  were  very  busy  among  themselves  in 
bartering  for  features :  one  was  trucking  a  lock  of  gray  hairs 
for  a  carbuncle,  another  was  making  over  a  short  waist  for  a 
pair  of  round  shoulders,  and  a  third  cheapening  a  bad  face 
for  a  lost  reputation ;  but,  on  all  these  occasions,  there  was 
not  one  of  them  who  did  not  think  the  new  blemish,  as  soon 
as  she  had  got  it  into  her  possession,  much  more  disagreeable 
than  the  old  one.  I  made  the  same  observation  on  every 
other  misfortune  or  calamity,  which  every  one  in  the  assem- 
bly brought  upon  himself  in  lieu  of  what  he  had  parted  with  : 
whether  it  be  that  all  the  evils  which  befall  us,  are,  in  some 
measure,  suited  and  proportioned  to  our  strength,  or  that 
every  evil  becomes  more  supportable  by  our  being  accustom- 
etl  to  it,  I  shalL  not  determine. 

I  must  not  omit  my  own  particular  adventure.  My  friend 
with  a  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken  upon  him  my  short 
face,  but  he  made  such  a  grotesque  figure  in  it,  that,  as  1 


JQ  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

looked  upon  him,  I  could  not  forbear  laughing  at  myself, 
insomuch  that  I  put  my  own  face  out  of  countenance.  The 
poor  gentleman  was  so  sensible  of  the  ridicule,  that  I  found 
he  was  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done :  on  the  other  side,  I 
found  that  I  myself  had  no  great  reason  to  triumph  ;  for,  as 
I  went  to  touch  my  forehead,  I  missed  the  place,  and  clapped 
my  finger  upon  my  upper  lip.  Besides,  as  my  nose  was  ex- 
ceedingly prominent,  I  gave  it  two  or  three  unlucky  knocks, 
as  I  was  playing  my  hand  about  my  face,  and  aiming  at  some 
other  part  of  it. 

I  saw  two  other  gentlemen  by  me,  who  were  in  the  same 
ridiculous  circumstances.  These  had  made  a  foolish  swop 
between  a  couple  of  thick  bandy  legs  and  two  long  trapsticks. 
One  of  these  looked  like  a  man  walking  upon  stilts,  and  was 
80  lifted  up  into  the  air,  above  his  ordinary  height,  that  his 
head  turned  round  with  it ;  while  the  other  made  such  awk- 
ward circles,  as  he  attempted  to  walk,  that  he  scarcely  knew 
how  to  move  forward  upon  his  new  supporters.  Observing 
him  to  be  a  pleasant  kind  of  fellow,  I  stuck  my  cane  in  the 
ground,  and  told  him  I  would  lay  him  a  bottle  of  wine,  that 
he  did  not  march  up  to  it,  on  a  line  that  I  drew  for  him,  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two  sexes,  who 
made  a  most  piteous  sight,  as  they  wandered  up  and  down 
under  the  pressure  of  their  several  burdens.  The  whole  plain 
was  filled  with  murmurs  and  complaints,  groans  and  lamenta- 
tions. Jupiter,  at  length,  taking  compassion  on  the  poor  mor- 
tals, ordered  them  a  second  time  to  lay  down  their  loads,  with 
a  design  to  give  every  one  his  own  again.  They  discharged 
themselves  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure :  after  which,  the 
phantom,  who  had  led  them  into  such  gross  delusions,  was 
commanded  to  disappear. 

There  was  sent,  in  her  stead,  a  goddess  of  a  quite  different 
figure :  her  motions  were  steady  and  composed,  and  her  as- 
pect serious  but  cheerful.  Her  name  was  Patience.  She  had 
no  sooner  placed  herself  by  the  Mount  of  Sorrows,  but,  what 
I  thought  very  remarkable,  the  whole  heap  sunk  to  such  a 
degree,  that  it  did  not  appear  a  third  part  so  big  as  it  was 
before.  She  afterwards  returned  every  man  his  own  propei 
calamity,  and,  teaching  him  how  to  bear  it  in  the  most  com 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK,  77 

modious  manner,  he  marched  off  with  it  contentedly,  being 
very  well  pleased  that  he  had  not  been  left  to  his  own  choice, 
as  to  the  kind  of  evils  which  fell  to  his  lot. 

Besides  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  be  drawn  out  of 
this  vision,  I  learned  from  it  never  to  repine  at  my  own  misfor- 
tunes, nor  to  envy  the  happiness  of  another ;  since  it  is  impos- 
sible for  any  man  to  form  a  right  judgment  of  his  neighbor's 
sufferings :  for  which  reason,  also,  I  have  determined  never 
to  think  too  lightly  of  another's  complaints,  but  to  regard  the 
sorrows  of  my  fellow-creatures  with  sentiments  of  humanity 
and  compassion. 


LESSON  XXXI. 

Advantages  of  a  Taste  for  the  Beauties  of  Nature. — 
Percival. 

That  perception  and  sensibility  to  beauty,  which,  when 
cultivated  and  improved,  we  term  taste,  is  most  general  and 
uniform  with  respect  to  those  objects,  which  are  not  liable  to 
variation  from  accident,  caprice,  or  fashion.  The  verdant 
lawn,  the  shady  grove,  the  variegated  landscape,  the  bound- 
less ocean,  and  the  starry  firmament,  are  contemplated  with 
pleasure  by  every  beholder.  But  the  emotions  of  different 
spectators,  though  similar  in  kind,  differ  widely  in  degree; 
for,  to  relish  with  full  delight  the  enchanting  scenes  of  nature, 
the  mind  must  be  uncorrupted  by  avarice,  sensuality,  or  am- 
bition ;  quick  in  her  sensibilities,  elevated  in  her  sentiments, 
and  devout  in  her  affections. 

If  this  enthusiasm  were  cherished  by  each  individual,  in 
that  degree  which  is  consistent  with  the  indispensable  duties 
of  his  station,  the  felicity  of  human  life  would  be  considera- 
bly augmented.  From  this  source  the  refined  and  vivid 
pleasures  of  the  imagination  are  almost  entirely  derived. 
The  elegant  arts  owe  their  choicest  beauties  to  a  taste  for  the 
contemplation  of  nature.  Painting  and  sculpture  are  ex- 
press imitations  of  visible  objects :  and  where  would  be  th' 
charms  of  poetry,  if  divested  of  the  imagery  and  embellish- 
7* 


78  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

ments  which  she  borrows  from  rural  scenes?  Painters, 
statuaries  and  poets,  therefore,  are  always  ambitious  to  ac- 
knowledge themselves  the  pupils  of  nature ;  and,  as  their 
skill  increases,  they  grow  more  and  more  delighted  with 
every  view  of  the  animal  and  vegetable  world. 

The  scenes  of  nature  contribute  powerfully  to  inspire  that 
serenity,  which  heightens  their  beauties,  and  is  necessary  to 
our  full  enjoyment  of  them.  By  a  secret  sympathy,  the  soul 
catches  the  harmony  which  she  contemplates,  and  the  frame 
within  assimilates  itself  to  that  without.  In  this  state  of 
sweet  composure,  we  become  susceptible  of  virtuous  impres- 
sions from  almost  every  surrounding  object.  The  patient  ox 
is  viewed  with  generous  complacency ;  the  guileless  sheep, 
with  pity  ;  and  the  playful  lamb,  with  emotions  of  tenderness 
and  love.  We  rejoice  with  the  horse  in  his  liberty  and  ex- 
emption from  toil,  while  he  ranges  at  large  through  enamelled 
pastures.  We  are  charmed  with  the  songs  of  birds,  soothed 
with  the  buzz  of  insects,  and  pleased  with  the  sportive  motion 
of  fishes,  because  these  are  expressions  of  enjoyment ;  and, 
having  felt  a  common  interest  in  the  gratifications  of  inferior 
beings,  we  shall  be  no  longer  indifferent  to  their  sufferings, 
or  become  wantonly  instrumental  in  producing  them. 

But  the  taste  for  natural  beauty  is  subservient  to  higher 
purposes,  than  those  which  have  been  enumerated.  The 
cultivation  of  it  not  only  refines  and  humanizes,  but  dignifies 
and  exalts  the  affections.  It  elevates  them  to  the  admiration 
and  love  of  that  Being,  who  is  the  Author  of  all  that  is  fair, 
sublime  and  good  in  the  creation.  Scepticism  and  irreligion 
are  hardly  compatible  with  the  sensibility  of  heart,  which 
arises  from  a  just  and  lively  relish  of  the  wisdom,  harmony 
and  order  subsisting  in  the  world  around  us.  Emotions  of 
piety  must  spring  up  spontaneously  in  the  bosom,  that  is  in 
unison  with  all  animated  nature.  Actuated  by  this  beneficial 
and  divine  inspiration,  man  finds  a  fane  in  every  grove  ;  and, 
glowing  with  devout  fervor,  he  joins  his  song  to  the  universal 
chorus,  or  muses  the  praise  of  the  Almighty  iii  more  express- 
ive silence. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  79 

LESSON  XXXII. 

The  Common  Lot. — Montgomery. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  lived  a  man  : — and  who  was  he  *? — 

Mortal,  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth  ; 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown  •  ^ 

His  name  has  perished  from  the  earth ; 

This  truth  survives  alone  : — 

That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear. 

Alternate,  triumphed  in  his  breast ; 
His  bliss  and  wo, — a  smile,  a  tear : — 

Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 

The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall, — 
We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him. 

For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  suffered, — but  his  pangs  are  o'er ; 

Enjoyed, — but  his  delights  are  fled ; 
Had  friends, — his  friends  are  now  no  more  ; 

And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved, — but  whom  he  loved,  the  grave 

Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb : 
Oh !  she  was  fair  ;  but  nought  could  save 

Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen; 

Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  : 
He  was  whatever  thou  hast  been : 

He  is  what  thou  shalt  be. 


so  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Sun,  moon  and  stars,  the  earth  and  maio, 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 

Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 
Their  ruins  since  the  world  begaii, 
^         Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 

Than  this, — there  lived  a  man. 


LESSON  XXXIIL 
The  Deserted  Wife. — J.  G.  Percival. 

He  comes  not.     I  have  watched  the  moon  go  down, 

But  yet  he  comes  not.     Once  it  was  not  so. 

He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow. 
The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 

Yet  he  will  come  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep ; 

And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep. 
To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 

Oh  !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep 
Over  those  sleeping  eyes, — that  smile,  which  cheers 

My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow  fixed  and  deep ! 

I  had  a  husband  once,  who  loved  me.     Now 
He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow. 

But  yet  I  cannot  hate.     Oh !  there  were  hours, 
When  I  could  hang  forever  on  his  eye, 
And  Time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 

Strowed,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowera. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  Ql 

I  loved  him  then — he  loved  me  too.     My  heart 

Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle,  if  he  smile  ; 
The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart; 
And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 

Venomed  and  barbed,  and  waste,  upon  the  vile, 
Caresses,  which  his  babe  and  mine  should  share ; 
Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  calmly  bear 

His  madness ;  and,  should  sickness  come,  and  lay 
Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 

I  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay, 

Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say, 
How  injured  and  how  faithful  I  had  been. 


LESSON  XXXIV. 
The  Last  Man. — Campbell. 

All  w^orldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom. 

The  Sun  himself  must  die. 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality. 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time  : 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold. 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime. 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare. 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan; 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man. 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands, — 

In  plague  and  famine  some : 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread  ; 
And  ships  were  drifting,  with  the  dead. 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb. 


82  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood. 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by. 
Saying,  "  We're  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun : 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, — 

'Tis  Mercy  bids  thee  go ; 
For  thou,  ten  thousand  thousand  years, 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears. 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

"  What  though  beneath  tTiee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill. 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood  and  eartl^. 

The  vassals  of  his  will ; —  .  * 

Yet  mourn  not  I  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day ; 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs,  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang. 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

"  Go,  let  Oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men. 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again  : 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe ; 
Stretched  in  Disease's  shapes  abhorred. 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword. 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

"  E'en  I  am  weary,  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire  ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips,  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  93 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast : 
The  eclipse  of  nature  spreads  my  pall,— 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost. 

"  This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

That  gave  its  heavenly  spark ; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark. 
No ;  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  Captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  Victory, 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death. 

"Go,  Sun,  v/hile  Mercy  holds  me  up, 

On  Nature's  awful  waste. 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  that  night  which  hides  thy  face 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  xidam's  race. 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  dark'ning  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality. 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God." 


LESSON  XXXV. 

Government  of  the  Temper. — Mrs.  Chaponb. 

The  principal  virtues  or  vices  of  a  woman,  must  be  of  a 
private  and  domestic  kind.  Within  the  circle  of  her  own 
family  and  dependents  lies  her  sphere  of  action ;  the  scene 
of  almost  all  those  tasks  and  trials,  which  must  determine 
her  character  and  her  fate,  here  and  hereafter.  Reflect,  for 
a  moment,  how  much  the  happiness  of  her  husband,  children 
and  servants,  must  depend  on  her  temper,  and  you  will  see 


^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  ,  . 

that  the  greatest  good  or  evil,  which  she  ever  may  have  ill 
her  power  to  do,  may  arise  from  her  correcting  or  indulging 
its  infirmities.     *     *     *     * 

It  is  true,  we  are  not  all  equally  happy  in  our  dispositions ; 
but  human  virtue  consists  in  cherishing  and  cultivating  every 
good  inclination,  and  in  checking  and  subduing,  every  pro- 
pensity to  evil.  If  you  had  been  born  with  a  bad  temper,  it 
might  have  been  made  a  good  one,  at  least  with  regard  to  its 
outward  effects,  by  education,  reason  and  principle ;  and, 
though  you  are  so  happy  as  to  have  a  good  one  while  young ^ 
do  not  suppose  it  will  always  continue  so,  if  you  neglect  to 
maintain  a  proper  command  over  it.  Power,  sickness,  dis- 
appointments, or  worldly  cares,  may  corrupt  and  imbitter 
the  finest  disposition,  if  they  are  not  counteracted  by  reason 
and  religion. 

It  is  observed  that  every  temper  is  inclined,  in  some  degree, 
either  to  passion,  peevishness,  or  obstinacy.  Many  are  so 
unfortunate  as  to  be  inclined  to  each  of  the  three  in  turn  :  it 
is  necessary,  therefore,  to  watch  the  bent  of  our  nature,  and 
to  apply  the  remedies  proper  for  the  infirmity  to  which  we 
are  most  liable.  With  regard  to  the  first,  it  is  so  injurious  to 
society,  and  so  odious  in  itself,  especially  in  the  female  char- 
acter, that  one  would  think  shame  alone  would  be  sufficient 
to  preserve  a  young  woman  from  giving  way  to  it ;  for  it  is 
as  unbecoming  her  character  to  be  betrayed  into  ill-behavior 
by  passion  as  by  intoxication  ;  and  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
the  one  as  much  as  of  the  other.  Gentleness,  meekness  and 
patience  are  peculiar  distinctions ;  and  an  enraged  woman 
is  one  of  the  most  disgusting  sights  in  nature. 

It  is  plain,  from  experience,  that  the  most  passionate  peo^ 
pie  can  command  themselves,  when  they  have  a  motive  suf- 
ficiently strong,  such  as  the  presence  of  those  they  fear,  or 
to  whom  they  particularly  desire  to  recommend  themselves. 
It  is,  therefore,  no  excuse  to  persons,  whom  you  have  injured 
by  unkind  reproaches  and  unjust  aspersions,  to  tell  them 
you  were  in  a  passion :  the  allowing  yourself  to  speak  to 
them  in  a  passion,  is  a  proof  of  an  insolent  disrespect,  which 
the  meanest  of  your  fellow-creatures  would  have  a  right  to 
resent. 

When  once  you  find  yourself  heated  so  far,  as  to  desire  to 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


85 


say  what  you  know  would  be  provoking  and  wounding  to 
another,  you  should  immediately  resolve  either  to  be  silent, 
or  to  quit  the  room,  rather  than  give  utterance  to  any  thing 
dictated  by  so  bad  an  inclination.  Be  assured,  you  are  then 
unfit  to  reason  or  to  reprove,  or  to  hear  reason  from  others. 
It  is,  therefore,  your  part  to  retire  from  such  an  occasion  to 
sin ;  and  wait  till  you  are  cool,  before  you  presume  to  judge 
of  what  has  passed. 

By  accustoming  yourself  thus  to  conquer  and  disappoint 
your  anger,  you  will,  by  degrees,  find  it  grow  weak  and 
manageable,  so  as  to  leave  your  reason  at  liberty.  You  will 
be  able  to  restrain  your  tongue  from  evil,  and  your  looks  and 
gestures  from  all  expressions  of  violence  and  ill-will.  Pride, 
which  produces  so  many  evils  in  the  human  mind,  is  the 
great  source  of  passion.  Whoever  cultivates  in  himself  a 
proper  humility,  a  due  sense  of  his  own  faults  and  insuf- 
ficiencies, and  a  due  respect  for  others,  will  find  but  small 
temptation  to  violent  or  unreasonable  anger. 

In  the  case  of  real  injuries,  which  justify  and  call  for  re- 
sentment, there  is  a  noble  and  generous  kind  of  anger,  a 
proper  and  necessary  part  of  our  nature,  which  has  nothing 
in  it  sinful  or  degrading.  I  would  not  wish  you  insensible 
to  this ;  for  the  person,  who  feels  not  an  injury,  must  be  inca- 
pable of  being  properly  affected  by  benefits.  With  those 
who  treat  you  ill,  without  provocation,  you  ought  to  maintain 
your  own  dignity. 

But,  in  order  to  do  this,  whilst  you  show  a  sense  of  their 
improper  behavior,  you  must  preserve  calmness,  and  even 
good-breeding;  and  thereby  convince  them  of  the  impo- 
tence, as  well  as  injustice,  of  their  malice.  You  must 
also  weigh  every  circumstance  with  candor  and  charity,  and 
consider  whether  your  showing  the  resentment  deserved, 
may  not  produce  ill  consequences  to  innocent  persons ;  and 
whether  it  may  not  occasion  the  breach  of  some  duty,  or 
necessary  connexion,  to  which  you  ought  to  sacrifice  even 
your  just  resentments. 

Above  all  things,  take  care  that  a  particular  offence  to  you 

does  not  make  you  unjust  to  the  general  character  of  the 

offending  person.     Generous  anger  does  not  preclude  esteem 

for  whatever  is  really  estimable,  nor  does  it  destroy  good-will 

8 


g|^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

to  the  person  of  its  object :  it  even  inspires  the  desire  of 
overcoming  him  by  benefits,  and  wishes  to  inflict  no  other 
punishment,  than  the  regret  of  having  injured  one  who  de- 
served his  kindness ;  it  is  always  placable,  and  ready  to  be 
reconciled,  as  soon  as  the  offender  is  convinced  of  his  error ; 
nor  can  any  subsequent  injury  provoke  it  to  recur  to  past 
disobligations,  which  had  been  once  forgiven. 

The  consciousness  of  injured  innocence  naturally  pro- 
duces dignity,  and  usually  prevents  excess  of  anger.  Our 
passion  is  most  unruly,  when  we  are  conscious  of  blame,  and 
when  we  apprehend  that  we  have  laid  ourselves  open  to  con- 
tempt. Where  we  know  we  have  been  wrong,  the  least 
injustice  in  the  degree  of  blame  imputed  to  us,  excites  our 
bitterest  resentment ;  but,  where  we  know  ourselves  faultless, 
the  sharpest  accusation  excites  pity  or  contempt,  rather  than 
rage. 


LESSON  XXXVI. 
Peevishness. — Mrs.  Chapone. 

Peevishness,  though  not  so  violent  and  fatal  in  its  imme- 
diate effects,  is  still  more  unamiable  than  passion,  and,  if 
possible,  more  destructive  of  happiness,  inasmuch  as  it 
operates  more  continually.  Though  the  fretful  man  injures 
us  less,  he  disgusts  us  more,  than  the  passionate  one ;  be- 
cause he  betrays  a  low  and  little  mind,  intent  on  trifles,  and 
engrossed  by  a  paltry  self-love,  which  knows  not  how  to  bear 
the  very  apprehension  of  any  inconvenience. 

It  is  self-love,  then,  which  we  must  combat,  when  we  find 
ourselves  assaulted  by  this  infirmity;  and,  by  voluntarily 
enduring  inconveniences,  we  shall  habituate  ourselves  to  bear 
them  with  ease  and  good-humor,  when  occasioned  by  others. 
Perhaps  this  is  the  best  kind  of  religious  mortification ;  as  the 
chief  end  of  denying  ourselves  any  innocent  indulgences, 
must  be  to  acquire  a  habit  of  command  over  our  passions 
and  inclinations,  particularly  such  as  are  likely  to  lead  us 
ittto  evil. 


i'OUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  g7 

Another  method  of  conquering  this  enemy,  is  to  abstract 
Our  minds  from  that  attention  to  trifling  circumstances,  which 
usually  creates  this  uneasiness.  Those,  who  are  engaged  in 
high  and  important  pursuits,  are  very  little  affected  by  small 
inconveniences.  I  would,  therefore,  wish  your  mind  to  haw 
always  some  object  in  pursuit  worthy  of  it,  that  it  may  not  be 
engrossed  by  such  as  are  in  themselves  scarce  worth  a  mo- 
ment's anxiety. 

It  is  chiefly  in  the  decline  of  life,  when  amusements  fail, 
and  when  the  more  importunate  passions  subside,  that  this 
infirmity  is  observed  to  grow  upon  us ;  and  perhaps  it  will 
seldom  fail  to  do  so,  unless  carefully  watched,  and  counter- 
acted by  reason.  But  though  the  aged  and  infirm  are  most 
liable  to  this  evil, — and  they  alone  are  to  be  pitied  for  it, — yet 
we  sometimes  see  the  young,  the  healthy,  and  those  who 
enjoy  most  outward  blessings,  inexcusably  guilty  of  it. 

The  smallest  disappointment  in  pleasure,  or  diflaculty  in 
the  most  trifling  employment,  will  put  wilful  young  people  out 
of  temper  ;  and  their  very  amusements  frequently  become 
sources  of  vexation  and  peevishness.  How  often  have  I  seen 
a  girl,  preparing  for  a  ball,  or  for  some  other  public  appear- 
ance, unable  to  satisfy  her  own  vanity,  fret  over  every  orna- 
ment she  put  on,  quarrel  with  her  maid,  with  her  clothes,  her 
hair ;  and,  growing  still  more  unlovely  as  she  grew  more  cross, 
be  ready  to  fight  with  her  looking-glass,  for  not  making  her 
as  handsome  as  she  wished  to  be  !  She  did  not  consider,  that 
the  traces  of  this  ill-humor  on  her  countenance,  would  be  a 
greater  disadvantage  to  her  appearance,  than  any  defect  in 
her  dress ;  or  even  than  the  plainest  features  enlivened  by 
joy  and  good-humor. 

There  is  a  degree  of  resignation  necessary  even  to  the 
enjoyment  of  pleasure  ;  we  must  be  ready  and  willing  to  give 
up  some  part  of  what  we  could  wish  for,  before  we  can  enjoy 
that  which  is  indulged  to  us.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she,  who 
frets  all  the  while  she  is  dressing  for  an  assembly,  will  suffer 
still  greater  uneasiness  when  she  is  there.  The  same  craving, 
restless  vanity  will  there  endure  a  thousand  mortifications, 
which,  in  the  midst  of  seeming  pleasure,  will  secretly  corrode 
her  heart ;  whilst  the  meek  and  humble  generally  find  mor« 
gratification  than  they  expected,  and  return  home  pleased 


08  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

and  enlivened  from  every  scene  of  amusement,  though  they 
oould  have  stayed  away  from  it  with  perfect  ease  and  conr 
tentment. 


LESSON   XXXVII. 

Obstinacy. — Mrs.  Chapone. 

SuLLENNEss,  or  obstinacy,  is,  perhaps,  a  worse  fault  of 
temper  than  either  passion  or  peevishness ;  and,  if  indulged, 
may  end  in  the  most  fatal  extremes  of  stubborn  melancholy, 
malice  and  revenge.  The  resentment  which,  instead  of  be- 
ing expressed,  is  nursed  in  secret,  and  continually  aggravated 
by  the  imagination,  will,  in  time,  become  the  ruling  passion  ; 
and  then  how  horrible  must  be  his  case,  whose  kind  and 
pleasurable  affections  are  all  swallowed  up  by  the  tormenting 
as  well  as  detestable  sentiments  of  hatred  and  revenge ! 

Brood  not  over  a  resentment,  which,  perhaps,  was  at  first 
ill-grounded,  and  which  is  undoubtedly  heightened  by  a 
heated  imagination.  But,  when  you  have  first  subdued  your 
own  temper,  so  as  to  be  able  to  speak  calmly,  reasonably  and 
kindly,  then  expostulate  with  the  person  you  suppose  to  be  in 
fault ;  hear  what  she  has  to  say ;  and  either  reconcile  your- 
self to  her,  or  quiet  your  mind  under  the  injury  by  the 
principle  of  Christian  charity. 

But  if  it  should  appear,  that  you  yourself  have  been  most 
to  blame,  or  if  you  have  been  in  an  error,  acknowledge  it 
fairly  and  handsomely ;  if  you  feel  any  reluctance  to  do  so, 
be  certain  that  it  arises  from  pride,  to  conquer  which  is  an 
absolute  duty.  "  A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,"  and  a 
generous  confession  oflentimes  more  than  atones  for  the  fault 
which  requires  it.  Truth  and  justice  demand,  that  we  should 
acknowledge  conviction  as  soon  as  we  feel  it,  and  not  main- 
lain  an  erroneous  opinion,  or  justify  a  wrong  conduct,  merely 
from  the  false  shame  of  confessing  our  past  ignorance.  A 
false  shame  it  undoubtedly  is,  and  as  impolitic  as  unjust, 
since  your  error  is  already  seen  by  those  who  endeavor  to  set 
you  right ;  but  your  conviction,  and  the  candor  and  generosi- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  g9 

ty  of  owning  it  freely,  may  still  be  an  honor  to  you,  and  would 
greatly  recommend  you  to  the  person  with  whom  you  disputed. 

Nothing  is  more  endearing  than  such  a  confession ;  and 
you  will  find  such  a  satisfaction  in  your  own  consciousness, 
and  in  the  renewed  tenderness  and  esteem  you  will  gain  from 
the  person  concerned,  that  your  task,  for  the  future,  will  be 
made  more  easy,  and  your  reluctance  to  be  convinced  will, 
on  every  occasion,  grow  less  and  less. 

The  love  of  truth,  and  a  real  desire  of  improvement,  ought 
to  be  the  only  motives  of  argumentation ;  and,  where  these 
axe  sincere,  no  difficulty  can  be  made  of  embracing  the  truth, 
as  soon  as  it  is  perceived.  But,  in  fact,  people  oftener  dis- 
pute from  vanity  and  pride,  which  make  it  a  grievous 
mortification  to  allow  that  we  are  the  wiser  for  what  we  have 
heard  from  another.  To  receive  advice,  reproof  and  in- 
struction, properly,  is  the  surest  sign  of  a  sincere  and 
humble  heart,  and  shows  a  greatness  of  mind,  which 
commands  our  respect  and  reverence,  while  it  appears  so 
willingly  to  yield  to  us  the  superiority.     *     *     *     ♦ 

I  know  not  whether  that  strange  caprice^  that  inequality 
of  taste  and  behavior,  so  commonly  attributed  to  our  sex, 
may  be  properly  called  a  fault  of  temper ;  as  it  seems  not  to 
be  connected  with,  or  arising  from,  our  animal  frame,  but  to 
be  rather  the  fruit  of  our  own  self-indulgence,  degenerating, 
by  degrees,  into  such  a  wantonness  of  will  as  knows  not  how 
to  please  itself 

When,  instead  of  regulating  our  actions  by  reason  and 
principle,  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  guided  by  every  slight 
and  momentary  impulse  of  inclination,  we  shall,  doubtless, 
appear  so  variable  and  inconstant,  that  nobody  can  guess, 
by  our  behavior  to-day,  what  may  be  expected  from  us 
to-morrow ;  nor  can  we  ourselves  tell  whether  what  we  de- 
lighted in  a  week  ago,  will  now  afford  us  the  least  degree  of 
pleasure.  It  is  in  vain  for  others  to  attempt  to  please  us  ; 
we  cannot  please  ourselves,  though  all  we  could  wish  for 
traits  our  choice.  Thus  does  a  capricious  woman  become 
"sick  of  herself,  through  very  selfishness,-"  and,  when  this 
is  the  case,  it  is  easy  to  judge  how  sick  others  must  be  of  her, 
and  how  contemptible  and  disgusting  she  must  appear.  This 
wretched  state  is  the  usual  consequence  of  power  and  flattery. 
8* 


^  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  XXXVIII. 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  GirVs  School — Mrs.  Hemans. 

Hush  !  'tis  a  holy  hour ;  the  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 

A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through  the  gloom 

And  the  sweet  stillness,  down  on  bright  young  heads, 

With  all  their  clustering  locks,  untouched  by  care. 

And  bowed,  as  flowers  are  bowed  with  night,  in  prayer. 

Gaze  on, — 'tis  lovely !  childhood's  lip  and  cheek 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow  of  thought  ; 

Gaze — yet  what  seest  thou  in  those  fair,  and  meek. 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sunshine  wrought  ? 

Thou  seest  what  grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 

What  death  must  fashion  for  eternity. 

Oh !  joyous  creatures,  that  will  sink  to  rest. 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done. 

As  birds,  with  slumber's  honey-dew  oppressed. 
Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun, — 

Lift  up  your  hearts !    though  yet  no  sorrow  lies 

Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes ; — 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  the  untroubled  springs 
Of  hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread ; 

And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the  wings 
Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be  spread ; 

Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low. 

Is  woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  wo ! 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep. 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's  hour, 
And  sumless  riches,  from  Affection's  deep. 

To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower ! 
And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay. 
And  to  bewail  that  worship — therefore  pray. 


YODNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  gj 

Her  lot  is  on  you — to  be  found,  untired, 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired. 

And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain  j — 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay, 

And,  oh !  to  love  through  all  things — therefore  pray. 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time. 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery  light, 

On  through  the  dark  days  fading  from  their  prime, 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls  from  blight. 

Earth  will  forsake — oh !  happy  to  have  given 

The  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  Heaven ! 


LESSON   XXXIX. 

Seasons  of  Prayer. — H.  Ware,  Jr. 

To  prayer  !  to  prayer  ! — for  the  morning  breaks. 
And  earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 
His  light  is  on  all,  below  and  above — 
The  light  of  gladness,  and  life,  and  love. 
Oh !  then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 
Send  upward  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer ! — for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on. 
Like  a  curtain  from  God's  kind  hand  it  flows. 
To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of  night. 

To  prayer ! — for  the  day  that  God  has  blest 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom, 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  Heaven  the  hallowed  hours. 


J  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

Oh !  hour  of  bliss !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows : — 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  Heaven  for  her  precious  care 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell, 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell ! 
Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 
And  pray  for  his  soul,  through  him  who  died. 
Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow : — 
Oh  !  what  are  earth  and  its  pleasures  now  ? 
And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair. 
But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  ? 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye,  that  upward  bends; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm,  confiding  air  ; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  God's, — his  last  words,  prayer. 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier ! — 

A  voice  to  sustain,  to  soothe,  and  to  cheer. 

It  commends  the  spirit  to  God  who  gave ; 

It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold,  dark  grave ; 

It  points  to  the  glory  where  he  shall  reign, 

Who  whispered,  "  Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss ' — 
But  gladder,  purer  than  rose  from  this. 
The  ransomed  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing ; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise, 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 

Awake !  awake !  and  gird  up  thy  strength, 
To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 
To  Him,  who  unceasing  love  displays, 
Whom  the  powers  of  nature  unceasingly  praise- 
To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given  ; 
For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


LESSON  XL. 
Solitude . — Byron. 

'Tis  night,  when  meditation  bids  us  feel 

We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal. 

Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 

Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend. 
When  youth  itself  survives  young  love  and  joy? 

Alas !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  ! 
Ah !  happy  years !  once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy  ? 

Thus,  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 

To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere. 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  hope  and  pride, 

And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 

None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 

A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear — 
A  flashing  pang !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell. 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 

Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  j 


94  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold ; 

Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean ; — 
This  is  not  solitude ;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores  unrolled. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men. 

To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen. 

With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless ; 

Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress  I 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued. 

If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less, 
Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought  and  sued ; — 
This  is  to  be  alone ;  this,  this  is  solitude ! 


LESSON  XLI. 

Art  of  Pleasing. — Chesterfield. 

The  desire  of  being  pleased  is  universal ;  the  desire  of 
pleasing  should  be  so  too.  It  is  included  in  that  great  and 
fundamental  principle  of  morality,  of  doing  to  others  what 
we  wish  they  should  do  to  us.  There  are,  indeed,  some 
moral  duties  of  a  much  higher  nature,  but  none  of  a  more 
amiable ;  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  place  it  at  the  head  of  the 
minor  virtues. 

The  manner  of  conferring  favors  or  benefits  is,  as  to 
pleasing,  almost  as  important  as  the  matter  itself  Take 
care,  then,  never  to  throw  away  the  obligations,  which,  per- 
haps, you  may  have  it  in  your  power  to  confer  upon  others,  by 
an  air  of  insolent  protection,  or  by  a  cold  and  comfortless 
manner,  which  stifles  them  in  their  birth.  Humanity  inclines, 
religion  requires,  and  our  moral  duties  oblige  us,  as  far  as  we 
are  able,  to  relieve  the  distresses  and  miseries  of  our  fellow- 
creatures  :  but  this  is  not  all ;  for  a  true,  heart-felt  benevo- 
lence and  tenderness  will  prompt  us  to  contribute  what  we 
caji  to  their  ease,  their  amusement,  and  their  pleasure,  as 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  9§ 

far  as  innocently  we  may.  Let  us,  then,  not  only  scatter 
benefits,  but  even  strow  flowers,  for  our  fellow-travellers  in 
the  rugged  ways  of  the  world. 

There  are  some,  and  but  too  many  in  this  country  par- 
ticularly, who,  without  the  least  visible  taint  of  ill-nature  or 
malevolence,  seem  to  be  totally  indifferent,  and  do  not  show 
the  least  desire  to  please ;  as,  on  the  other  hand,  they  never 
designedly  offend.  Whether  this  proceeds  from  a  lazy,  neg- 
ligent and  listless  disposition,  from  a  gloomy  and  melancholic 
nature,  from  ill  health,  low  spirits,  or  from  a  secret  and  sullen 
pride,  arising  from  the  consciousness  of  their  boasted  liberty 
and  independence,  is  hard  to  determine,  considering  the  va- 
rious movements  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  wonderful 
errors  of  the  human  head.  But,  be  the  cause  what  it  will, 
that  neutrality  which  is  the  effect  of  it,  makes  these  people, 
as  neutralities  always  do,  despicable,  and  mere  blanks  in  so- 
ciety. They  would  surely  be  roused  from  their  indifference,  if 
they  would  seriously  consider  the  infinite  utility  of  pleasing. 

The  person  who  manifests  a  constant  desire  to  please, 
places  his  perhaps  small  stock  of  merit  at  great  interest. 
What  vast  returns,  then,  must  real  merit,  when  thus  adorned, 
necessarily  bring  in ! 

Civility  is  the  essential  article  toward  pleasing,  and  is 
the  result  of  good  nature  and  good  sense  :  but  good-breeding 
is  the  decoration,  the  lustre  of  civility,  and  only  to  be  acquired 
by  a  minute  attention  to  good  company.  A  good-natured 
ploughman  may  be  intentionally  as  civil  as  the  politest  cour- 
tier ;  but  his  manner  often  degrades  and  vilifies  the  matter  ; 
whereas,  in  good-breeding,  the  manner  always  adorns  and 
dignifies  the  matter  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  have  often  known 
it  give  currency  to  base  coin. 

Civility  is  often  attended  by  a  ceremoniousness,  which 
good-breeding  corrects,  but  will  not  quite  abolish.  A  certain 
degree  of  ceremony  is  a  necessary  outwork  of  manners  : 
it  keeps  the  forward  and  petulant  at  a  proper  distance,  and  is 
a  very  small  restraint  to  the  sensible  and  to  the  well-bred 
part  of  the  world. 


36  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  XLII. 

Politeness. — Miss  Talbot. 

Politeness  is  the  just  medium  between  form  and  rudeness. 
It  is  the  consequence  of  a  benevolent  nature,  which  shows 
itself  to  general  acquaintance  in  an  obliging,  unconstrained 
civility,  as  it  does  to  more  particular  ones  in  distinguished 
acts  of  kindness.  This  good  nature  must  be  directed  by  a 
justness  of  sense,  and  a  quickness  of  discernment,  that 
knows  how  to  use  every  opportunity  of  exercising  it,  and  to 
proportion  the  instances  of  it  to  every  character  and  situation. 
It  is  a  restraint  laid  by  reason  and  benevolence  upon  every 
irregularity  of  the  temper,  which,  in  obedience  to  them,  is 
forced  to  accommodate  itself  even  to  the  fantastic  cares, 
which  custom  and  fashion  have  established,  if,  by  these 
means,  it  can  procure,  in  any  degree,  the  satisfaction  or  good 
opinion  of  any  part  of  mankind ;  thus  paying  an  obliging 
deference  to  their  judgment,  so  far  as  it  is  not  inconsistent 
with  the  higher  obligations  of  virtue  and  religion. 

This  must  be  accompanied  with  an  elegance  of  taste,  and 
a  delicacy  observant  of  the  least  trifles,  which  tend  to  please 
or  to  oblige ;  and,  though  its  foundation  must  be  rooted  in  the 
heart,  it  can  scarce  be  perfect  without  a  complete  knowledge 
of  the  world.  In  society,  it  is  the  medium  that  blends  all 
different  tempers  into  the  most  pleasing  harmony ;  while  it 
imposes  silence  on  the  loquacious,  and  inclines  the  most 
reserved  to  furnish  their  share  of  the  conversation.  It  re- 
presses the  desire  of  shining  alone,  and  increases  the  desire 
af  being  mutually  agreeable.  It  takes  off  the  edge  of  raillery, 
and  gives  delicacy  to  wit. 

To  superiors,  it  appears  in  a  respectful  freedom.  No 
greatness  can  awe  it  into  servility,  and  no  intimacy  can  sink 
it  into  a  regardless  familiarity.  To  inferiors,  it  shows  itself 
in  an  unassuming  good  nature.  Its  aim  is  to  raise  them  to 
you,  not  to  let  you  down  to  them.  It  at  once  maintains  the 
dignity  of  your  station,  and  expresses  the  goodness  of  your 
heart.  To  equals,  it  is  every  thing  that  is  charming ;  it 
studies  their  inclinations,  prevents  their  desires,  attends  to 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  97 

every  little  exactness  of  behavior,  and  all  the  time  appears 
perfectly  disengaged  and  careless. 

Such  and  so  amiable  is  true  politeness  ;  by  people  of  wrong 
heads  and  unworthy  hearts  disgraced  in  its  two  extremes  ; 
and,  by  the  generality  of  mankind,  confined  within  the  nar- 
row bounds  of  mere  good  breeding,  which,  in  truth,  is  only 
one  instance  of  it. 

There  is  a  kind  of  character,  which  does  not,  in  the  least, 
deserve  to  be  reckoned  polite,  though  it  is  exact  in  every 
punctilio  of  behavior ;  such  as  would  not,  for  the  world,  omit 
paying  you  the  civility  of  a  bow,  or  fail  in  the  least  circum- 
stance of  decorum.  But  then  these  people  do  this  merely 
for  their  own  sake :  whether  you  are  pleased  or  embarrassed 
with  it,  is  little  of  their  care.  They  have  performed  their 
own  parts,  and  are  satisfied. 


LESSON  XLIII. 

Confessions  of  a  bashful  Man^ — Anonymous. 

You  must ^ know,  that,  in  my  person,  I  am  tall  and  thin, 
with  a  fair  complexion,  and  light  flaxen  hair ;  but  of  such 
extreme  sensibility  to  shame,  that,  on  the  smallest  subject  of 
confusion,  my  blood  all  rushes  into  my  cheeks.  Having  been 
sent  to  the  university,  the  consciousness  of  my  unhappy  fail- 
ing made  me  avoid  society,  and  I  became  enamored  of  a 
college  life.  But  from  that  peaceful  retreat  I  was  called  by 
the  deaths  of  my  father  and  of  a  rich  uncle,  who  left  me  a 
fortune  of  thirty  thousand  pounds. 

I  now  purchased  an  estate  in  the  country ;  and  my  com- 
pany was  much  courted  by  the  surrounding  families,  es- 
pecially by  such  as  had  marriageable  daughters.  Though  I 
wished  to  accept  their  offered  friendship,  I  was  forced 
repeatedly  to  excuse  myself,  under  the  pretence  of  not  being 
quite  settled.  Often,  when  I  have  rode  or  walked  with 
full  intention  of  returning  their  visits,  my  heart  has  failed 
me  as  I  approached  their  gates,  and  I  have  returned  home- 
ward, resolving  to  try  again  the  next  day.  Determined, 
9 


98  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

however,  at  length,  to  conquer  my  timidity,  I  accepted  of  an 
invitation  to  dine  vrith  one,  whose  open,  easy  manner,  left 
me  no  room  to  doubt  a  cordial  welcome. 

Sir  Thomas  Friendly,  who  lives  about  two  miles  distant,  is 
a  Baronet,  with  an  estate  joining  to  that  I  purchased.  He 
has  two  sons  and  five  daughters,  all  grown  up,  and  living, 
with  their  mother  and  a  maiden  sister  of  Sir  Thomas's,  at 
Friendly  Hall.  Conscious  of  my  unpolished  gait,  I  have, 
for  some  time  past,  taken  private  lessons  of  a  professor,  who 
teaches  "  grown  gentlemen  to  dance ;"  and  though  I  at  first 
found  wondrous  difficulty  in  the  art  he  taught,  my  knowledge 
of  the  mathematics  was  of  prodigious  use  in  teaching  me  the 
equilibrium  of  my  body,  and  the  due  adjustment  of  the  centre 
of  gravity  to  the  five  positions. — Having  acquired  the  art  of 
walking  without  tottering,  and  learned  to  make  a  bow,  I 
boldly  ventured  to  obey  the  Baronet's  invitation  to  a  family 
dinner,  not  doubting  but  my  new  acquirements  would  enable 
me  to  see  the  ladies  with  tolerable  intrepidity ;  but,  alas !  how 
vain  are  all  the  hopes  of  theory,  when  unsupported  by  habit- 
ual practice ! 

As  I  approached  the  house,  a  dinner  bell  alarmed  my  fears, 
lest  I  had  spoiled  the  dinner  by  want  of  punctuality.  Im- 
pressed with  this  idea,  I  blushed  the  deepest  crimson,  as  my 
name  was  repeatedly  announced  by  the  several  livery  ser- 
vants, who  ushered  me  into  the  library,  hardly  knowing  what 
or  whom  I  saw.  At  my  first  entrance,  I  summoned  all  my 
fortitude,  and  made  my  new-learned  bow  to  Lady  Friendly ; 
but,  unfortunately,  in  bringing  back  my  left  foot  to  the  third 
position,  I  trod  upon  the  gouty  toe  of  poor  Sir  Thomas,  who 
had  followed  close  at  my  heels,  to  be  the  nomenclator  of  the 
family.  The  confusion  this  occasioned  in  me  is  hardly  to  be 
conceived,  since  none  but  bashful  men  can  judge  of  my  dis>- 
tress.  The  Baronet's  politeness,  by  degrees,  dissipated  my 
concern ;  and  I  was  astonished  to  see  how  far  good  breeding 
could  enable  him  to  suppress  his  feelings,  and  to  appear  with 
periect  ease  alter  so  painiiil  an  accident. 

The  cheerfulness  of  her  ladyship,  and  the  familiar  chat  of 
the  young  ladies,  insensibly  led  me  to  throw  off"  my  reserve 
and  sheepishness,  till,  at  length,  I  ventured  to  join  the  conver** 
sation,  and  even  to  start  fresh  subjects.     The  library  being 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  99 

richly  furnished  with  books  in  elegant  bindings,  I  conceived 
Sir  Thomas  to  be  a  man  of  literature,  and  ventured  to  give 
my  opinion  concerning  the  several  editions  of  the  Greek 
classics ;  in  which  the  Baronet's  opinion  exactly  coincided 
with  my  own. 

'"  "T^cf  this  subject  I  was  led  by  observing  an  edition  of  Xen- 
ophon  in  sixteen  volumes,  which  (as  I  had  never  before 
heard  of  such  a  thing)  greatly  excited  my  curiosity,  and  I 
rose  up  to  examine  what  it  could  be.  Sir  Thomas  saw  what 
I  was  about,  and,  as  I  supposed,  willing  to  save  me  trouble, 
rose  to  take  down  the  book,  which  made  me  more  eager  to 
prevent  him,  and,  hastily  laying  my  hand  on  the  first  volume, 
I  pulled  it  forcibly ;  but,  lo !  instead  of  books,  a  board,  which, 
by  leather  and  gilding,  had  been  made  to  look  like  sixteen 
volumes,  came  tumbling  down,  and  unluckily  pitched  upon  a 
Wedgewood  inkstand  on  the  table  under  it.  In  vain  did  Sir 
Thomas  assure  me  there  was  no  harm ;  I  saw  the  ink  stream- 
ing from  an  inlaid  table  on  the  Turkey  carpet,  and,  scarce 
knowing  what  I  did,  attempted  to  stop  its  progress  with  my 
cambric  handkerchief.  In  the  height  of  this  confusion,  we 
were  informed  that  dinner  was  served  up ;  and  I,  with  joy, 
perceived  that  the  bell,  which  at  first  had  so  alarmed  my 
fears,  was  only  the  half  hour  dinner  bell. 

In  walking  through  the  hall,  and  suite  of  apartments,  to 
the  dining  room,  I  had  time  to  collect  my  scattered  senses, 
and  was  desired  to  take  my  seat  betwixt  Lady  Friendly  and 
her  eldest  daughter  at  the  table.  Since  the  fall  of  the  wood- 
en Xenophon,  my  face  had  been  continually  burning  like  a 
firebrand ;  and  I  was  just  beginning  to  recover  myself,  and  to 
feel  comfortably  cool,  when  an  unlooked-for  accident  rekin- 
dled all  my  heat  and  blushes.  Having  set  my  plate  of  soup 
too  near  the  edge  of  the  table,  in  bowing  to  Miss  Dinah, 
who  politely  complimented  the  pattern  of  my  waistcoat,  I 
tumbled  the  whole  scalding  contents  into  my  lap.  In  spite 
of  an  immediate  supply  of  napkins  to  wipe  the  surface  of  my 
clothes,  my  black  silk  dress  was  not  stout  enough  to  save  me 
from  the  painful  effects  of  this  sudden  fomentation ;  and  for 
some  minutes  I  seemed  to  be  in  a  boiling  caldron ;  but,  recol- 
lecting how  Sir  Thomas  had  disguised  his  torture  when  I 


XOO  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

trod  upon  his  toe,  I  firmly  bore  my  pain  in  silence,  amidst 
the  stifled  giggling  of  the  ladies  and  the  servants. 

I  will  not  relate  the  several  blunders  which  I  made,  during 
the  first  course,  or  the  distress  occasioned  by  my  being  desi> 
ed  to  carve  a  fowl,  or  help  to  various  dishes  that  stood  near 
me ;  spilling  a  sauce-boat,  and  knocking  down  a  salt-cellar : 
rather  let  me  hasten  to  the  second  course,  where  fresh  disas- 
ters overwhelmed  me  quite. 

I  had  a  piece  of  rich,  sweet  pudding  on  my  fork,  when 
Miss  Louisa  Friendly  begged  to  trouble  me  for  a  pigeon  that 
stood  near  me.  In  my  haste,  scarce  knowing  what  I  did,  I 
whipped  the  pudding  into  my  mouth,  hot  as  a  burning  coaL 
It  was  impossible  to  conceal  my  agony ;  my  eyes  were  starting 
from  their  sockets.  At  last,  in  spite  of  shame  and  resolution, 
I  was  obliged  to  drop  the  cause  of  torment  on  my  plate.  Sir 
Thomas  and  the  ladies  all  compassionated  my  misfortune,  and 
each  advised  a  different  application.  One  recommended  oil, 
another  water ;  but  all  agreed  that  wine  was  best  for  drawing 
cmt  the  fire  ;  and  a  glass  of  sherry  was  brought  me  from  the 
sideboard,  which  I  snatched  up  with  eagerness :  but,  oh ! 
how  shall  I  tell  the  sequel  ? 

Whether  the  butler  by  accident  mistook,  or  purposely  design- 
^  to  drive  me  mad,  he  gave  me  the  strongest  brandy,  with 
which  I  filled  my  mouth,  already  flayed  and  blistered.  To 
tally  unused  to  every  kind  of  ardent  spirits,  with  my  tongue, 
throat  and  palate  as  raw  as  beef,  what  could  I  do  ?  I  could 
not  swallow;  and,  clapping  my  hands  upon  my  mouth,  the 
liquor  squirted  through  my  fingers  like  a  fountain,  over  all 
the  dishes ;  and  I  was  crushed  by  bursts  of  laughter  from  all 
quarters.  In  vain  did  Sir  Thomas  reprimand  the  servants, 
and  Lady  Friendly  chide  her  daughters ;  for  the  measure  of 
my  shame  and  their  diversion  was  not  yet  complete. 

To  relieve  me  from  the  intolerable  state  of  perspiration 
which  this  accident  had  caused,  without  considering  what  I 
did,  I  wiped  my  face  with  that  ill-fated  handkerchief,  which 
was  still  wet  from  the  consequences  of  the  fall  of  Xenophon, 
and  covered  all  my  features  with  streaks  of  ink  in  every  di» 
rection.  The  Baronet  himself  could  not  support  the  shock, 
but  joined  his  lady  in  the  general  laugh ;  while  I  sprung 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  IQl 

from  the  table  in  despair,  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  ran 
home  in  an  agony  of  confusion  and  disgrace,  which  the  most 
poignant  sense  of  guilt  could  not  have  excited. 


LESSON  XLIV. 
Intemperate  Love  of  Praise. — Blair. 

The  intemperate  love  of  praise  not  only  w^eakens  the  true 
principles  of  probity,  by  substituting  inferior  motives  in  their 
stead,  but  frequently  also  impels  men  to  actions  which  are 
directly  criminal.  It  obliges  them  to  follow  the  current  of 
popular  opinion,  whithersoever  it  may  carry  them.  They  will 
be  afraid  to  appear  in  their  own  form,  or  to  utter  their  genu- 
ine sentiments.  Their  whole  character  will  become  fictions, 
opinions  will  be  assumed,  speech  and  behavior  modelled,  and 
even  the  countenance  formed,  as  prevailing  taste  exacts. 

From  one  who  has  submitted  to  such  prostitution,  for  the 
sake  of  praise,  you  can  no  longer  expect  fidelity  or  attach- 
ment on  any  trying  occasion.  In  private  life,  he  will  be  a 
timorous  and  treacherous  friend.  In  public  conduct,  he  will 
be  subtle  and  versatile  ;  ready  to  desert  the  cause  which  he 
had  espoused,  and  to  veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  popu- 
lar favor.  In  fine,  all  becomes  unsound  and  hollow  in  that 
heart,  where,  instead  of  regard  to  the  divine  approbation, 
there  reigns  the  sovereign  desire  of  pleasing  men. 

This  passion,  when  it  becomes  predominant,  most  com- 
monly defeats  its  own  end,  and  deprives  men  of  the  honor 
which  they  are  so  eager  to  gain.  Without  preserving  liberty 
and  independence,  we  can  never  command  respect.  That 
servility  of  spirit,  which  subjects  us  to  the  opinion  of  others, 
and  renders  us  tributaries  to  the  world  for  the  sake  of  ap- 
plause, is  what  all  mankind  despise.  They  look  up  with 
reverence  to  one,  who,  unawed  by  their  censures,  acts  ac- 
cording to  his  own  sense  of  things,  and  follows  the  free  im- 
pulse of  an  honorable  mind. 

But  him,  who  hangs  totally  on  their  judgment,  they  consid- 
er as  their  vassal.  They  even  enjoy  a  malignant  pleasure  in 
9* 


102  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

humbling  his  vanity,  and  withholding  that  praise  which  he  is 
seen  to  court.  By  artifice  and  show,  he  may  shine  for  a 
time  in  the  public  eye ;  but  it  is  only  as  long  as  he  can  sui>- 
port  the  belief  of  acting  from  principle.  When  the  inconsis- 
tencies, into  which  he  falls,  detect  his  character,  his  reputation 
passes  away  like  the  pageant  of  a  day.  No  man  ever  obtained 
lasting  fame,  who  did  not,  on  several  occasions,  contradict 
the  prejudices  of  popular  opinion. 

There  is  no  course  of  behavior,  which  will,  at  all  times, 
please  all  men.  That  which  pleases  most  generally,  and 
which  only  commands  durable  praise,  is  religion  and  virtue. 
Sincere  piety  towards  God,  kind  affection  to  men,  and  fidel- 
ity in  the  discharge  of  all  the  duties  of  life ;  a  conscience 
pure  and  undefiled ;  a  heart  firm  to  justice  and  to  truth,  su- 
perior to  all  terrors  that  would  shake,  and  insensible  of  all 
pleasures  that  would  betray  it ;  unconquerable  by  the  oppo- 
sition of  the  world,  and  resigned  to  God  alone ;  these  are 
the  qualities  which  render  a  man  truly  respectable  and  great. 

Such  a  character  may,  in  evil  times,  incur  unjust  reproaclu 
But  the  clouds,  which  envy  or  prejudice  has  gathered  around 
it,  will  gradually  disperse ;  and  its  brightness  will  come  forth, 
in  the  end,  as  the  noon  day.  As  soon  as  it  is  thoroughly 
known,  it  finds  a  witness  in  every  breast.  It  forces  approbar 
tion,  even  from  the  most  degenerate.  The  human  heart  is 
so  formed  as  to  be  attuned,  if  we  may  use  the  expression,  to 
its  praise.  In  fact,  it  is  this  firm  and  inflexible  virtue,  this 
determined  regard  to  principle  beyond  all  opinion,  which  has 
crowned  the  characters  of  such  as  now  stand  highest  in  the 
rolls  of  lasting  fame.  The  truly  illustrious  are  they,  who  did 
not  court  the  praise  of  the  world,  but  who  performed  the 
actions  which  deserve  it. ' 

As  an  immoderate  passion  for  human  praise  is  dangerous 
to  virtue,  and  unfavorable  to  true  honor ;  so  it  is  destructive 
of  self-enjoyment  and  inward  peace.  Regard  to  the  praise 
of  God,  prescribes  a  simple  and  consistent  tenor  of  conduct, 
which,  in  all  situations,  is  the  same ;  which  engages  us  in  no 
perplexities,  and  requires  no  artful  refinement.  But  he,  who 
tarns  aside  from  the  straight  road  of  duty,  in  order  to  gain 
applause,  involves  himself  in  an  intricate  labyrinth.  He  will 
be  often  embarrassed  concerning  the  course  which  he  ought 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


103 


to  hold.  His  mind  will  be  always  on  the  stretch.  He  will 
be  obliged  to  listen  with  anxious  attention  to  every  whis- 
per of  the  popular  voice.  The  demands  of  those  masters, 
whom  he  has  submitted  to  serve,  will  prove  frequently  con- 
tradictory and  inconsistent.  He  has  prepared  a  yoke  for  his 
neck,  which  he  must  resolve  to  bear,  how  much  soever  it 
may  gall  him. 

The  toils  of  virtue  are  honorable.  The  mind  is  supported 
under  them  by  the  consciousness  of  acting  a  right  and 
becoming  part.  But  the  labors  to  which  he  is  doomed,  who 
is  enslaved  to  the  desire  of  praise,  are  aggravated  by  reflec- 
tion both  on  the  uncertainty  of  the  recompense  which  he 
pursues,  and  on  the  debasement  to  which  he  submits.  Coi> 
science  will,  from  time  to  time,  remind  him  of  the  improper 
sacrifices  which  he  has  made,  and  of  the  forfeiture  which  he 
has  incurred,  of  the  praise  of  God  for  the  sake  of  praise 
from  men.  Suppose  him  to  receive  all  the  rewards  which  the 
mistaken  opinion  of  the  world  can  bestow,  its  loudest  ap- 
plause will  often  be  unable  to  drown  the  upbraidings  of  an 
inward  voice  ;  and  if  a  man  is  reduced  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself,  what  avails  it  him  to  be  caressed  by  others? 

But,  in  truth,  the  reward  towards  which  he  looks,  who  pro- 
poses human  praise  as  his  ultimate  object,  will  be  always 
flying,  like  a  shadow,  before  him.  So  capricious  and  uncei- 
tain,  so  fickle  and  mutable,  is  the  favor  of  the  multitude,  that 
it  proves  the  most  unsatisfactory  of  all  pursuits  in  which  men 
can  be  engaged.  He,  who  sets  his  heart  on  it,  is  preparing 
for  himself  perpetual  mortifications.  If  the  greatest  and 
best  can  seldom  retain  it  long,  we  may  easily  believe,  that 
from  the  vain  and  undeserving  it  will  suddenly  escape. 

There  is  no  character  but  what,  on  some  side,  is  vulnerable 
by  censure.  He  who  lifts  himself  up  to  the  observation  and 
notice  of  the  world,  is.  of  all  men,  the  least  likely  to  avoid  it ; 
for  he  draws  upon  himself  a  thousand  eyes,  that  will  nar- 
rowly inspect  him  in  every  part.  Every  opportunity  will  be 
watched  of  bringing  him  down  to  the  common  level.  His 
errors  will  be  more  divulged,  and  his  infirmities  more  magnir 
fied,  than  those  of  others.  In  proportion  to  his  eagerness 
for  praise,  will  be  his  sensibility  to  reproach.  Nor  is  it  re- 
proach alone  that  will  wound  him.     He  will  be  as  much 


104  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

dejected  by  silence  and  neglect.  He  puts  himself  under  the 
power  of  every  one  to  humble  him,  by  withholding  expected 
praise.  Even  when  praise  is  bestowed,  he  is  mortified  by 
its  being  either  faint  or  trite.  He  pines  when  his  reputation 
stagnates.  The  degree  of  applause,  to  which  he  has  been 
accustomed,  grows  insipid  ;  and  to  be  always  praised  from  the 
same  topics,  becomes,  at  last,  much  the  same  with  not  being 
jwaised  at  all. 

All  these  chagrins  and  disquietudes  are  happily  avoided  by 
him,  who  keeps  so  troublesome  a  passion  within  its  due 
bounds ;  who  is  more  desirous  of  being  truly  worthy,  than  of 
being  thought  so  ;  who  pursues  the  praise  of  the  world  with 
manly  temperance,  and  in  subordination  to  the  praise  of  God. 
He  is  neither  made  giddy  by  the  intoxicating  vapor  of  ap- 
plause, nor  humbled  and  cast  down  by  the  unmerited  attacks 
of  censure.  Resting  on  a  higher  approbation,  he  enjoys 
himself,  in  peace,  whether  human  praise  stays  with  him,  or 
flies  away. 


LESSON  XLV. 

God's  First  Temples.     A  Hymn. — Bryant. 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 
That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that,  high  in  heaven, 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  inaccessible  Majesty.     Ah !  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  1     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn ;  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns  ;  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze. 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches ;  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark. 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     Here  are  seen 
No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  pride  ;  no  silks 
Rustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 
Encounter ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here ;  thou  fill'st  - 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath. 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place. 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship;  nature,  here. 
In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love. 
Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around. 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  herbs, 
Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades. 


1€6 


106  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength  and  grace, 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves,  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile. 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo !  all  grow  old  and  die  :  but  see,  again. 
How,  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay. 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth — 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh !  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries. 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies. 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death ;  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulchre,  and  blooms  and  smiles, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men,  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outliyed 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  '         1Q7 

Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them ;  and  there  have  been  holy  men, 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and,  in  thy  presence,  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here,  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps,  shrink, 
And  tremble,  and  are  still. 

O  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill. 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament. 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind,  that  uproots  the  woods. 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call. 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities ; — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by ! 
Oh !  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine ;  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchained  elements,  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


LESSON  XLVI. 

Morning  Hymn. — Milton. 

These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty  !  thine  this  universal  frame. 
Thus  wondrous  fair !     Thyself  how  wondrous,  then  I 
Unspeakable !  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens, 
To  us  mvisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works :  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divina 


108  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOEL 

Speak  ye,  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels !  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 
And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing.     Ye  in  heaven : 
On  earth,  join,  all  ye  creatures,  to  extol, 
Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end ! 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 
If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 
Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 
With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 
While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 
Thou  Sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 
Acknowledge  him  thy  greater ;  sound  his  praise 
In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st, 
And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall's 
Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fliest 
With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb,  that  flies ; 
And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 
In  mystic  dance,  not  without  song ;  resound 
His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 
Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 
Perpetual  circle,  multiform,  and  mix. 
And  nourish  all  things  ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 
Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 
Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 
From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 
Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 
In  honor  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise. 
Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolored  sky, 
Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers ; 
Rising  or  falling,  still  advance  his  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow 
Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 
With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 
Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow, 
Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praiscw 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  109 

Join  yoices,  all  ye  living  souls  !  ye  birds 
That,  singing,  Up  to  heaven's  gate  ascend, 
,.  Bear  on  your  wings  and  iit  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep. 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  mom  or  even. 

To  bill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade, 
•Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 
Mailf  VH&iyersal  Lord  !  be  bounteous  still 

To^give  us  only  good :  and  if  the  night 

Have  gathered  aught  of  evil,  or  concealed. 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark ! 


LESSON   XLVIL 
Description  of  the  Custom  of  Whiteicashing. — Hopkinson. 

When  a  young  couple  are  about  to  enter  into  the  matri- 
monial state,  a  never-fiiiling  article  in  the  marriage  treaty  is, 
that  the  lady  shall  have  and  enjoy  the  free  and  unmolested 
exercise  of  the  rights  of  tohifeioashing,  with  all  its  ceremoni- 
als, privileges  and  appurtenances.,  A  young  woman  would 
forego  the  most  advantageous  coniilkion,  and  even  disappoint 
the  warmest  wish  of  her  heart,  rather  than  resign  the  inval- 
uable right.  '  You  would  wonder  what  this  privilege  of 
whitewashing^is  : — I  will  endeavor  to  give  you  some  idea  of 
the  ceremony,  as  I  -have  seen  it  performed. 

There  is  no  season  of  the  year,  in  which  the  lady  may  not 
claim  her  privilege,  if  she  pleases ;  but  the  latter  end  of  May 
is  most  generally  fixed  upon  for  the  purpose.  The  attentive 
husband  may  judge,  by  certain  prognostics,  when  the  storm 
is  nigh  at  hand.  When  the  lady  is  unusually  fretful,  finds 
fault  with  the  servants,  is  discontented  with  the  children,  and 
complains  much  of  the  filthiness  of  every  thing  about  her — 
these  are  signs  which  ought  not  to  be  neglected ;  yet  they 
are  not  decisive,  as  they  sometimes  come  on  and  go  oflf  again, 
without  producing  any  farther  effect. 
10 


1X0  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

But  if,  when  the  husband  rises  in  the  morning,  he  should 
observe  in  the  yard  a  wheelbarrow,  with  a  quantity  of  lime 
in  it,  or  should  see  certain  buckets  with  lime  dissolved  in 
water,  there  is  then  no  time  to  be  lost ;  he  immediately  locks 
up  the  apartment  or  closet,  where  his  papers  or  his  private 
property  are  kept,  and,  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket,  betakes 
himself  to  flight ;  for  a  husband,  however  beloved,  becomes 
a  perfect  nuisance  during  this  season  of  female  rage ;  his 
authority  is  superseded,  his  commission  is  suspended,  and  the 
very  scullion,  who  cleans  the  brasses  in  the  kitchen,  becomes 
of  more  consideration  and  importance  than  he.  He  has 
nothing  for  it  but  to  abdicate,  and  run  from  an  evil,  which  he 
can  neither  prevent  nor  mollify. 

The  husband  gone,  the  ceremony  begins.  The  walls  are, 
in  a  few  minutes,  stripped  of  their  furniture  ;  paintings,  prints 
and  looking-glasses  lie  in  a  huddled  heap  about  the  floors ; 
the  curtains  are  torn  from  the  testers,  the  beds  crammed  into 
the  windows ;  chairs  and  tables,  bedsteads  and  cradles,  crowd 
the  yard ;  and  the  garden  fence  bends  beneath  the  weight 
of  carpets,  blankets,  cloth  cloaks,  old  coats  and  ragged 
breeches. 

Here,  may  be  seen  the  lumber  of  the  kitchen,  forming 
a  dark  and  confused  mass  ;  for  the  foreground  of  the  picture, 
gridirons  and  frying-pans,  rusty  shovels  and  broken  tongs, 
spits  and  pots,  and  the  fractured  remains  of  rush-bottomed 
chairs.  There,  a  closet  has  disgorged  its  contents — cracked 
tumblers,  broken  wine-glasses,  phials  of  forgotten  physic 
papers  of  unknown  powders,  seeds  and  dried  herbs,  handfuls 
of  old  corks,  tops  of  teapots,  and  stoppers  of  departed  decan- 
ters ; — from  the  rag-hole  in  the  garret  to  the  rat-hole  in  the 
cellar,  no  place  escapes  unrummaged. 

This  ceremony  completed,  and  the  house  thoroughly  evac- 
uated, the  next  operation  is,  to  smear  the  walls  and  ceilings 
of  every  room  and  closet  with  brushes  dipped  in  a  solution  of 
lime,  called  whitewash ;  to  pour  buckets  of  water  over  every 
floor,  and  scratch  all  the  partitions  and  wainscots  with  rough 
brushes  wet  with  soap-suds,  and  dipped  in  stone-cutter'i? 
sand.  The  windows  by  no  means  escape  the  general  deluge. 
A  servant  scrambles  out  upon  the  penthouse,  at  the  risk  of 
her  neck,  and,  with  a  mug  in  her  hand  and  a  bucket  withip 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  lU 

reach,  she  dashes  away  innumerable  gallons  of  water  against 
tlie  glass  panes,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  passengers  in  the 
street. 

I  have  been  told,  that  an  action  at  law  was  once  brought 
against  one  of  these  water-nymphs,  by  a  person  who  had  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  spoiled  by  this  operation ;  but,  after  a 
long  argument,  it  was  determined  by  the  whole  court,  that 
the  action  would  not  lie,  inasmuch  as  the  defendant  was  in 
the  exercise  of  a  legal  right,  and  not  answerable  for  the  con* 
sequences ;  and  so  the  poor  gentleman  was  doubly  nonsuited ; 
for  he  lost  not  only  his  suit  of  clothes,  but  his  suit  at  law. 

These  smearings  and  scratchings,  washings  and  dashings, 
being  duly  performed,  the  next  ceremony  is,  to  cleanse  and 
replace  the  distracted  furniture.  You  may  have  seen  a' house- 
raising,  or  a  ship-launch,  when  ail  the  hands  within  reach 
are  collected  together ;  recollect,  if  you  can,  the  hurry,  bustle, 
confusion  and  noise  of  such  a  scene,  and  you  will  have  some 
idea  of  this  cleaning  match.  The  misfortune  is,  that  the 
sole  object  is  to  make  things  clean ;  it  matters  not  how  many 
useful,  ornamental  or  valuable  articles  are  mutilated,  or  sufFel 
death,  under  the  operation ;  a  mahogany  chair  and  carved 
frame  undergo  the  same  discipline  ;  they  are  to  be  mad^ 
clean  at  all  events  ;  but  their  preservation  is  not  worthy  of 
attention. 

For  instance,  a  fine  large  engraving  is  laid  flat  upon  tho 
floor ;  smaller  prints  are  piled  upon  it,  and  the  superincumbent 
weight  cracks  the  glasses  of  the  lower  tier ;  but  this  is  of  at> 
consequence.  A  valuable  picture  is  placed  leaning  against 
the  sharp  corner  of  a  table ;  others  are  made  to  lean  against 
that,  until  the  pressure  of  the  whole,  forces  the  corner  of  ths 
table  through  the  canvass  of  the  first.  The  frame  and  glass 
of  a  fine  print  are  to  be  cleaned ;  the  spirit  and  oil,  used 
on  this  occasion,  are  suffered  to  leak  through  and  spoil  the 
engraving ;  no  matter,  if  the  glass  is  clean,  and  the  frame 
shine,  it  lij  sufficient :  the  rest  is  not  worthy  of  consideration. 
An  able  mathematician  has  made  an  accurate  calculation, 
founded  on  long  experience,  and  has  discovered  that  the 
losses  and  destruction  incident  to  two  whitewashings,  are 
equal  to  one  removal,  and  three  removals  equal  to  one  fire. 

The  cleaning  frolic  over,  matters  begin  to  resume  theif 


112  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

pristine  appearance.  The  storm  abates,  and  all  would  be 
well  again ;  but  it  is  impossible  that  so  great  a  convulsion, 
in  so  small  a  community,  should  not  produce  some  farther 
effects.  For  two  or  three  weeks  after  the  operation,  the 
family  are  usually  afflicted  with  sore  throats  or  sore  eyes, 
occasioned  by  the  caustic  quality  of  the  lime,  or  with  severe 
colds  from  the  exhalations  of  wet  floors  or  damp  walls. 

I  knew  a  gentleman,  who  was  fond  of  accounting  for  every 
thing  in  a  philosophical  way.  He  considered  this,  which  I 
have  called  a  custom,  as  a  real  periodical  disease,  peculiar 
to  the  climate.  His  train  of  reasoning  was  ingenious  and 
whimsical,  but  I  am  not  at  leisure  to  give  you  the  detail. 
The  result  was,  that  he  found  the  distemper  to  be  incurable ; 
but,  after  much  study,  he  conceived  he  had  discovered  a 
method  to  divert  the  evil  he  could  not  subdue.  For  this  pur- 
pose, he  caused  a  small  building,  about  twelve  feet  square, 
to  be  erected  in  his  garden,  and  furnished  with  some  ordi- 
nary chairs  and  tables ;  and  a  few  prints  of  the  cheapest  sort 
were  hung  against  the  walls. 

His  hope  was,  that,  when  the  whitewashing  frenzy  seized 
the  females  of  his  family,  they  might  repair  to  this  apartment, 
and  scrub  and  smear  and  scour  to  their  hearts'  content ;  and 
so  spend  the  violence  of  the  disease  in  this  outpost,  while  he 
enjoyed  himself  in  quiet  at  head-quarters.  But  the  experi- 
ment did  not  answer  his  expectation.  It  was  impossible  it 
should  ;  since  a  principal  part  of  the  gratification  consists  in 
the  lady's  having  an  uncontrolled  right  to  torment  her  hus- 
band, at  least  once  a  year,  and  to  turn  him  out  of  doors,  and 
take  the  reins  of  government  into  her  own  hands. 

There  is  a  much  better  contrivance  than  this  of  the  phi- 
losopher, which  is,  to  cover  the  walls  of  the  house  with 
paper  :  this  is  generally  done ;  and,  though  it  cannot  abolish, 
it  at  least  shortens,  the  period  of  female  dominion.  The 
paper  is  decorated  with  flowers  of  various  fancies,  and  made 
so  ornamental,  that  the  women  have  admitted  the  fashion 
without  perceiving  the  design. 

There  is  also  another  alleviation  of  the  husband's  distress ; 
he  generally  has  the  privilege  of  a  small  room  or  closet  for 
his  books  and  papers,  the  key  of  which  he  is  allowed  to  keep. 
This  is  considered  as  a  privileged  place,  and  stands  like  the 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  H3 

land  of  Goshen  amid  the  plagues  of  Egypt.  But  then  ho 
must  be  extremely  cautious,  and  ever  on  his  guard;  for, 
should  he  inadvertently  go  abroad,  and  leave  the  key  in  his 
door,  the  housemaid,  v^^ho  is  always  on  the  watch  for  such  an 
opportunity,  immediately  enters  in  triumph,  with  buckets, 
brooms  and  brushes ;  takes  possession  of  the  premises,  and 
forthwith  puts  all  his  books  and  papers  to  rights — to  his  utter 
confusion,  and  sometimes  serious  detriment. 


LESSON  XLVIII. 

Importance  of  considering  both  Sides  of  a  Question. — 
Beaumont. 

In  the  days  of  knight-errantry  and  paganism,  one  of  the 
old  British  princes  set  up  a  statue  to  the  goddess  of  Victory, 
in  a  point  where  four  roads  met  together.  In  her  right  hand 
she  held  a  spear,  and  her  left  hand  rested  upon  a  shield ;  the 
outside  of  this  shield  was  of  gold,  and  the  inside  of  silver. 
On  the  former  was  inscribed,  in  the  old  British  language, 
"  To  the  goddess  ever  favorable  ;'*  and  on  the  other,  "  For 
four  victories  obtained  successively  over  the  Picts  and  other 
i,ahabitants  of  the  northern  islands." 

It  happened,  one  day,  that  two  knights,  completely  armed, 
one  in  black  armor,  the  other  in  white,  arrived  from  opposite 
parts  of  the  country  at  this  statue,  just  about  the  same  time  ; 
and,  as  neither  of  them  had  seen  it  before,  they  stopped  to 
read  the  inscription,  and  observe  the  excellence  of  its  work- 
manship. 

After  contemplating  it  for  some  time,  "This  golden 
shield," — says  the  black  knight — "  Golden  shield  !"  cried  the 
white  knight,  who  was  as  strictly  observing  the  opposite  side, 
"  why,  if  I  have  my  eyes,  it  is  silver." — "  I  know  nothing  of 
your  eyes,"  replied  the  black  knight ;  "  but,  if  ever  I  saw  a 
golden  shield  in  my  life,  this  is  one." — "  Yes,"  returned  the 
white  knight,  smiling,  "  it  is  very  probable,  indeed,  that  they 
should  expose  a  shield  of  gold  in  so  public  a  place  as  this ! 
10  * 


1X4  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

For  my  part,  I  wonder  even  a  silver  one  is  not  too  strong  a 
temptation  for  the  devotion  of  some  people  who  pass  this 
way ;  and  it  appears,  by  the  date,  that  this  has  been  here 
above  three  years." 

The  black  knight  could  not  bear  the  smile  with  which 
this  was  delivered,  and  grew  so  warm  in  the  dispute,  that  it 
soon  ended  in  a  challenge  :  they  both,  therefore,  turned  their 
horses,  and  rode  back  so  far  as  to  have  sujfficient  space  for 
their  career ;  then,  fixing  their  spears  in  their  rests,  they  flew 
at  each  other  with  the  greatest  fury  and  impetuosity.  Their 
shock  was  so  rude,  and  the  blow  on  each  side  so  effectual, 
that  they  both  fell  to  the  ground  much  wounded  and  bruised ; 
and  lay  there  for  some  time,  as  in  a  trance. 

A  good  Druid,  who  was  travelling  that  way,  found  them 
in  this  condition.  The  Druids  were  the  physicians  of  those 
times,  as  well  as  the  priests.  He  had  a  sovereign  balsam 
about  him,  which  he  had  composed  himself;  for  he  was  very 
skilful  in  all  the  plants  that  grew  in  the  fields  or  in  the  for- 
ests :  he  staunched  their  blood,  applied  his  balsam  to  their 
wounds,  and  brought  them,  as  it  were,  from  death  to  life 
again.  As  soon  as  they  were  sufficiently  recovered,  he  began 
to  inquire  into  the  occasion  of  their  quarrel.  "Why,  this 
man,"  cried  the  black  knight,  "  will  have  it  that  yonder 
shield  is  silver." — "  And  he  will  have  it,"  replied  the  white 
knight,  "  that  it  is  gold."  And  then  they  told  him  all  the 
particulars  of  the  affair. 

"Ah !"  said  the  Druid  with  a  sigh,  "  you  are  both  of  you, 
my  brethren,  in  the  right,  and  both  of  you  in  the  wrong : 
had  either  of  you  given  himself  time  to  look  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  shield,  as  well  as  that  which  first  presented  itself 
to  view,  all  this  passion  and  bloodshed  might  have  been  avoid- 
ed :  however,  there  is  a  very  good  lesson  to  be  learned  from 
the  evils,  that  have  befallen  you  on  this  occasion.  Permit  me, 
therefore,  to  entreat  you  never  to  enter  into  any  dispute,  for 
the  future,  till  you  have  fairly  considered  both  sides  of  the 
question." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  H5 

LESSON  XLIX. 
The  Flight  of  Xerxes. — Maria  J.  Jewsbury. 

I  SAW  him  on  the  battle-eve, 

When  like  a  king  he  bore  him ; 
Proud*  hosts  in  glittering  helm  and  greave, 

And  prouder  chiefs  before  him  : 
The  warrior,  and  the  warrior's  deeds — 
The  morrow,  and  the  morrow's  meeds, — 

No  daunting  thoughts  came  o'er  him  ; 
He  looked  around  him,  and  his  eye 
Defiance  flashed  to  earth  and  sky. 

He  looked  on  ocean;  its  broad  breast 

Was  covered  with  his  fleet ; — 
On  earth;  and  saw  from  east  to  west,  t^j^ 

His  bannered  millions  meet ; —  * 

While  rock,  and  glen,  and  cave,  and  coast, 
Shook  with  the  war-cry  of  that  host, 

The  thunder  of  their  feet ! 
He  heard  the  imperial  echoes  ring, — 
He  heard,  and  felt  himself  a  king.  -'^^ 

I  saw  him  next  alone  : — nor  camp, 

Nor  chief,  his  steps  attended  ; 
Nor  banner  blazed,  nor  courser's  tramp 

With  war-cries  proudly  blended. 
He  stood  alone,  whom  Fortune  high 
So  lately  seemed  to  deify; 

jF/c,  who  with  Heaven  contended, 
Fled  like  a  fugitive  and  slave ! 
Behind, — the  foe ; — before, — the  wave. 

He  stood, — fleet,  army,  treasure, — gone,— 

Alone  and  in  despair  ! 
But  wave  and  wind  swept  ruthless  on, 

For  they  were  monarchs  there ; 


116  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  Xerxes,  in  a  single  bark, 

Where  late  his  thousand  ships  were  dark, 

Must  all  their  fury  dare  : — 
What  a  revenge — a  trophy,  this — 
For  thee,  immortal  Salamis ! 


LESSON  L. 

Pairing  Time  anticipated. — Cowper. 

It  chanced,  upon  a  winter's  day, 
But  warm,  and  bright  and  calm  as  May, 
The  birds,  conceiving  a  design 
To  forestall  sweet  St.  Valentine, 
In  many  an  orchard,  copse  and  grove, 
Assembled  on  affairs  of  love. 
And  with  much  twitter  and  much  chatter, 
Began  to  agitate  the  matter. 

At  length,  a  bulfinch,  who  could  boast 
More  years  and  wisdom  than  the  most. 
Entreated,  opening  wide  his  beak, 
A  moment's  liberty  to  speak ; 
And,  silence  publicly  enjoined. 
Delivered  briefly  thus  his  mind : — 
"  My  friends,  be  cautious  how  ye  treat 
The  subject  upon  which  we  meet ; 
I  fear  we  shall  have  winter  yet." 

A  finch,  whose  tongue  knew  no  control, 
With  golden  wing  and  satin  poll, 
A  last  gear's  bird,  who  ne'er  had  tried 
What  marriage  means,  thus  pert  replied  : — 
"  Methinks  the  gentleman,"  quoth  she, 
"  Opposite  in  the  apple-tree. 
By  his  good  will,  would  keep  us  single 
Till  yonder  heaven  and  earth  shall  mingle, 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Or  (which  is  likelier  to  befall) 

Till  death  exterminate  us  all. 

I  marry  without  more  ado  : — 

My  dear  Dick  Redcap,  what  say  you  V 

Dick  heard,  and  tweedling,  ogling,  bridling, 
Turning  short  round,  strutting  and  sidling, 
Attested,  glad,  his  approbation 
Of  an  immediate  conjugation. 
Their  sentiments,  so  well  expressed, 
Influenced  mightily  the  rest : 
All  paired,  and  each  pair  built  a  nest. 

But,  though  the  birds  were  thus  in  haste. 
The  leaves  came  on  not  quite  so  fast ; 
And  destiny,  that  sometimes  bears 
An  aspect  stern  on  man's  affairs. 
Not  altogether  smiled  on  theirs. 
The  wind — ^of  late  breathed  gently  forth — 
Now  shifted  east,  and  east  by  north ; 
Bare  trees  and  shrubs  but  ill,  you  know, 
Could  shelter  them  from  rain  or  snow ; 
Stepping  into  their  nests,  they  paddled ; 
Themselves  were  chilled,  their  eggs  were  addled : 
Soon,  every  father  bird  and  mother 
Grew  quarrelsome,  and  pecked  each  other, 
Parted  without  the  least  regret, 
Except  that  they  had  ever  met. 
And  learned  in  future  to  be  wiser 
Than  to  neglect  a  good  advisef. 

MORAL. 

Misses,  the  tale  that  I  relate 
This  lesson  seems  to  carry ; — 

Choose  not  alone  a  proper  mate, 
But  proper  time  to  marry. 


UT 


118  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK 


LESSON  LI. 

Influence  of  Christianity  in  elevating  the  Character  of 
Females. — J.  G.  Carter. 

There  is  one  topic,  intimately  connected  with  the  intro* 
Auction  and  decline  of  Christianity,  and  subsequently  with 
Its  revival  in  Europe,  which  the  occasion  strongly  suggests, 
and  which  I  cannot  forbear  briefly  to  touch  upon.  I  allude 
to  the  new  and  more  interesting  character  assumed  by  wo» 
man  since  those  events.  In  the  heathen  world,  and  under 
the  Jewish  dispensation,  she  was  the  slave  of  man.  Chris* 
tianity  constituted  her  his  companion.  But  as  our  religion 
gradually  lost  its  power,  in  the  dark  ages,  she  sunk  down 
again  to  her  deep  moral  degradation. 

The  age  of  chivalry,  indeed,  exalted  her  to  be  an  object  of 
adoration.  But  it  was  a  profane  adoration,  not  founded  upon 
the  respect  due  to  a  being  of  immortal  hopes  and  destinies 
as  well  as  man.  This  high  character  has  been  conceded  to 
her  at  a  later  period,  as  she  has  slowly  attained  the  rank  or» 
dained  for  her  by  Heaven.  Although  this  change,  in  tho 
relation  of  woman  to  man  and  to  society,  is  both  an  evidence 
and  a  consequence  of  an  improvement  in  the  human  condi* 
tion,  yet  now  her  character  is  a  cause  operating  to  produce  a 
still  greater  improvement.  And  if  there  be  any  one  cause, 
to  which  we  may  look  with  more  confidence  than  to  others, 
for  hastening  the  approach  of  a  more  perfect  state  of  society, 
that  cause  is  the  elevated  character  of  woman,  as  displayed 
in  the  full  developement  of  all  her  moral  and  intellectual 
powers. 

The  influence  of  the  female  character,  is  now  felt  and 
acknowledged  in  all  the  relations  of  her  life.  I  speak  not 
now  of  those  distinguished  women,  who  instruct  their  age 
through  the  public  press ;  nor  of  those,  whose  devout  strain3 
we  take  upon  our  lips  when  we  worship ;  but  of  a  much 
larger  class  ;  of  those,  whose  influence  is  felt  in  the  relation? 
of  neighbor,  friend,  daughter,  wife,  mother.  Who  waits  al 
the  couch  of  the  sick,  to  administer  tender  charities  whil^ 
life  lingers,  or  to  perform  the  last  acts  of  kindness  when  death 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  ]  jg 

comes  1  Where  shall  we  look  for  those  examples  of  friend- 
ship, that  most  adorn  our  nature?  those  abiding  friendships, 
which  trust  even  when  betrayed,  and  survive  all  changes  of 
fortune  ?  Where  shall  we  find  the  brightest  illustrations  of 
filial  piety  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  a  daughter,  herself,  perhaps, 
timid  and  helpless,  watching  the  decline  of  an  aged  parent, 
and  holding  out,  with  heroic  fortitude,  to  anticipate  his  wishes, 
to  administer  to  his  wants,  and  to  sustain  his  tottering  steps 
to  the  very  borders  of  the  grave  ? 

But  in  no  relation  does  woman  exercise  so  deep  an  influ- 
ence, both  immediately  and  prospectively,  as  in  that  of  moth- 
er. To  her  is  committed  the  immortal  treasure  of  the  infant 
mind.  Upon  her  devolves  the  care  of  the  first  stages  of  that 
course  of  discipline,  which  is  to  form,  of  a  being  perhaps 
the  most  frail  and  helpless  in  the  world,  the  fearless  ruler  of 
animated  creation,  and  the  devout  adorer  of  its  great  Creator. 
Her  smiles  call  into  exercise  the  first  affections  that  spring 
up  in  our  hearts.  She  cherishes  and  expands  the  earliest 
germs  of  our  intellects.  She  breathes  over  us  her  deepest 
devotions.  She  lifts  our  little  hands,  and  teaches  our  little 
tongues  to  lisp  in  prayer.  She  watches  over  us,  like  a  guar- 
dian angel,  and  protects  us  through  all  our  helpless  years, 
when  we  know  not  of  her  cares  and  her  anxieties  on  our 
account.  She  follows  us  into  the  world  of  men,  and  lives  in 
us,  and  blesses  us,  when  she  lives  not  otherwise  upon  the 
earth. 

What  constitutes  the  centre  of  every  home  ?  Whither  do 
our  thoughts  turn,  when  our  feet  are  weary  with  wandering, 
and  our  hearts  sick  with  disappointment  1  Where  shall  the 
truant  and  forgetful  husband  go  for  sympathy,  unalloyed  and 
without  design,  but  to  the  bosom  of  her,  who  is  ever  ready 
and  waiting  to  share  in  his  adversity  or  his  prosperity  ?  And 
if  there  be  a  tribunal,  where  the  sins  and  the  follies  of  a  fro- 
ward  child  may  hope  for  pardon  and  forgiveness,  this  side 
heaven,  that  tribunal  is  the  heart  of  a  fond  and  devoted 
mother 


r 


120  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  LII. 
Letter  on  Watering-Places, — Mrs.  Barbauld. 

I  AM  a  country  gentleman,  and  enjoy  an  estate  in  North- 
amptonshire, which  formerly  enabled  its  possessors  to  assume 
some  degree  of  consequence  in  the  country  ;  but  which,  for 
several  generations,  has  been  growing  less,  only  because  it 
has  not  grown  bigger.  I  mean,  that,  though  I  have  not  yet 
been  obliged  to  mortgage  my  land,  or  fell  my  timber,  its  rel- 
ative value  is  every  day  diminishing  by  the  prodigious  influx 
of  wealth,  real  and  artificial,  which,  for  some  time  past,  has 
been  pouring  into  this  kingdom.  Hitherto,  however,  I  have 
found  my  income  equal  to  my  wants.  It  has  enabled  me  to 
inhabit  a  good  house  in  town,  for  four  months  of  the  year,  and 
to  reside  amongst  my  tenants  and  neighbors,  for  the  remain- 
ing eight,  with  credit  and  hospitality. 

I  am,  indeed,  myself  so  fond  of  the  country,  and  so  averse 
■n  my  nature  to  every  thing  of  hurry  and  bustle,  that,  if  I 
x>nsulted  only  my  own  taste,  I  should  never  feel  a  wish  to 
tcave  the  shelter  of  my  own  oaks  in  the  dreariest  season  of 
the  year ;  but  I  looked  upon  our  annual  visit  to  London  as  ^ 
proper  compliance  with  the  gayer  disposition  of  my  wife,  and 
the  natural  curiosity  of  the  younger  part  of  the  family.  Be- 
sides, to  say  the  truth,  it  had  its  advantages  in  avoiding  a 
round  of  dinners  and  card-parties,  which  we  must  otherwise 
have  engaged  in  for  the  winter  season,  or  have  been  branded 
with  the  appellation  of  unsociable. 

Our  journey  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  furnishing  my  study 
with  some  new  books  and  prints,  and  my  wife  of  gratifying 
her  neighbors  with  some  ornamental  trifles,  before  their 
v^alue  was  sunk  by  becoming  common,  or  of  producing  at 
her  table  or  in  her  furniture  some  new-invented  refinement  of 
fashionable  elegance.  Our  hall  was  the  first  that  was  lighted 
by  an  Argand  lamp  ;  and  I  still  remember  how  we  were  grat- 
ified by  the  astonishment  of  our  guests,  when  my  wife,  with 
an  audible  voice,  called  to  the  footman  for  the  tongs  to  help 
to  the  asparagus  with.  We  found  it  pleasant,  too,  to  be  en- 
abled to  talk  of  capital  artists  and  favorite   actors;  and  I 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  121 

made  the  better  figure  in  my  political  debates  from  having 
heard  the  most  popular  speakers  in  the  House. 

Once,  too,  to  recruit  my  wife's  spirits  after  a  tedious  con- 
finement, we  passed  a  season  at  Bath.  In  this  manner,  there- 
fore, things  went  on  very  well  in  the  main,  till  of  late  my 
family  have  discovered  that  we  lead  a  very  dull  kind  of  life, 
and  that  it  is  impossible  to  exist  with  comfort,  or,  indeed,  to  en- 
joy a  tolerable  share  of  health,  without  spending  good  part  of 
every  summer  at  a  watering-place.  I  held  out  as  long  as  I 
could.  One  may  be  allowed  to  resist  the  plans  of  dissipation, 
but  the  plea  of  health  cannot  decently  be  withstood. 

It  was  soon  discovered  that  my  eldest  daughter  wanted 
bracing,  and  my  wife  had  a  bilious  complaint,  against  which 
our  family  physician  declared  that  sea-bathing  would  be  par- 
ticularly serviceable.  Therefore,  though  it  was  my  own  pri- 
vate opinion,  that  my  daughter's  nerves  might  have  been  as 
well  braced  by  morning  rides  upon  the  Northamptonshire 
hills,  as  by  evening  dances  in  the  public  rooms,  and  that  my 
wife's  bile  would  have  been  greatly  lessened  by  compliance 
with  her  husband,  I  acquiesced ;  and  preparations  were  made 
for  our  journey. 

These,  indeed,  were  but  slight ;  for  the  chief  gratification 
proposed  in  this  scheme  was,  an  entire  freedom  from  care  and 
form.  We  should  find  every  thing  requisite  in  our  lodgings ; 
it  was  of  no  consequence  whether  the  rooms  we  should  oc- 
cupy for  a  few  months  in  the  summer,  were  elegant  or  not ; 
the  simplicity  of  a  country  life  would  be  the  more  enjoyed  by 
the  little  shifts  we  should  be  put  to ;  and  all  necessaries  would 
be  provided  in  our  lodgings.  It  was  not,  therefore,  till  after 
we  had  taken  them,  that  we  discovered  how  far  ready-fur- 
nished lodgings  were  from  affording  every  article  in  the  cata- 
logue of  necessaries.       We  dia   nOl,  lilGcrca,  g;^<.  tk^ra    a  uor^ 

scrupulous  examination ;  for  the  place  was  so  full,  that,  when 
we  arrived,  late  at  night,  and  tired  with  our  journey,  all  the 
beds  at  the  inn  were  taken  up,  and  an  easy-chair  and  a  carpet 
were  all  the  accommodations  we  could  obtain  for  our  repose. 
The  next  morning,  therefore,  we  eagerly  engaged  the  first 
lodgings  we  found  vacant,  and  have  ever  since  been  disputing 
about  the  terms,  which,  from  the  hurry,  were  not  sufficiently 
ascertained ;  and  it  is  not  even  yet  settled  whether  the  little 
11 


122  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

blue  garret,  which  serves  us  as  a  powdering  room,  is  ours  of 
right  or  by  favor.  The  want  of  all  sorts  of  conveniences  is 
a  constant  excuse  for  the  want  of  all  order  and  neatness, 
which  is  so  visible  in  our  apartment ;  and  we  are  continually 
lamenting  that  we  are  obliged  to  buy  things  of  which  we  have 
such  plenty  at  home. 

It  is  my  misfortune  that  I  can  do  nothing  without  all  my 
little  conveniences  about  me ;  and,  in  order  to  write  a  com- 
mon letter,  I  must  have  my  study-table  to  lean  my  elbows  on 
in  sedentary  luxury  :  you  will  judge,  therefore,  how  little  I  am 
able  to  employ  my  leisure,  when  I  tell  you,  that  the  only  room 
they  have  been  able  to  allot  for  my  use  is  so  filled  and  crowd- 
ed with  my  daughters'  hat-boxes,  band-boxes,  and  wig-boxes, 
that  I  can  scarcely  move  about  in  it,  and  am  at  this  moment 
writing  upon  a  spare  trunk  for  want  of  a  table, 

I  am,  therefore,  driven  to  saunter  about  with  the  rest  of  the 
party  ;  but,  instead  of  the  fine  clumps  of  trees  and  waving 
fields  of  corn  I  have  been  accustomed  to  have  before  my  eyes, 
I  see  nothing  but  a  naked  beach,  almost  without  a  tree,  ex- 
posed by  turns  to  the  cutting  eastern  blast  andSthe  glare  of  a 
July  sun,  and  covered  with  a  sand  equally  painful  to  the  eyes 
and  to  the  feet.  The  ocean  is,  indeed,  an  object  of  unspeak- 
able grandeur;  but  when  it  has  been  contemplated  in  a 
storm  and  in  a  calm, — when  we  have  seen  the  sun  rise  out  of 
its  bosom,  and  the  moon  silver  its  extended  surface, — its  variety 
is  exhausted,  and  the  eye  begins  to  require  the  softer  and 
more  interesting  scenes  of  cultivated  nature. 

My  family  have,  indeed,  been  persuaded  several  times  to  en- 
joy the  sea  still  more,  by  engaging  in  a  little  sailing-party  ; 
but  as,  unfortunately,  Northamptonshire  has  not  afforded  them 
any  opportunity  of  becoming  seasoned  sailors,  these  parties 
of  pleasure  are  always  n++or.r^«J  ^,-:tK  t,i»o.  «v»oot  aicaami  sicK- 
noss.  This,  likewise,  I  am  told,  is  very  good  for  the  constitu- 
tion :  it  may  be  so,  for  aught  I  know ;  but  I  confess  I  am  apt 
to  imagine  that  taking  an  emetic  at  home  would  be  equally 
salutary,  and  I  am  sure  it  would  be  more  decent. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  i<23 

LESSON  LIII. 
TTie  same, — concluded. 

1  HAVE  endeavored  to  amuse  myself  with  the  company, 
but  without  much  success.  It  consists  of  a  very  few  great 
people,  who  make  a  set  by  themselves,  and  think  they  are  ei>- 
titled,  by  the  freedom  of  a  watering-place,  to  indulge  them- 
selves in  all  manner  of  airs ;  and  the  rest  is  a  motley  group 
of  sharpers,  merchants'  clerks,  idle  men,  and  nervous  women. 
I  have  been  accustomed  to  be  nice  in  my  choice  of  acquaint- 
ance ;  but  the  greater  part  of  our  connexions  here  are  such 
as  we  should  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge  any  where  else. 

As  to  the  settled  inhabitants  of  the  place,  all  who  do  not 
enrich  themselves  by  us,  view  us  with  dislike,  because  we 
raise  the  price  of  provisions  ;  and  those  who  do, — which,  in 
one  way  or  other,  comprehends  all  the  lower  class, — have  lost 
every  trace  of  rural  simplicity,  and  are  versed  in  all  arts  of  low 
cunning  and  chicane.  The  spirit  of  greediness  and  rapacity 
is  no  where  so  conspicuous  as  in  lodging-houses. 

At  our  seat  in  the  country,  our  domestic  concerns  went  on 
as  by  clock-work ;  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  week  settled  the 
bills,  and  few  tradesmen  wished,  and  none  dared,  to  practise 
ajiy  imposition  where  all  were  known;  and  the  consequence 
of  their  different  behavior  must  have  been  their  being 
marked,  for  life,  for  encouragement  or  for  distrust.  But  here 
the  continual  fluctuation  of  company  takes  away  all  regard  to 
character ;  the  most  respectable  and  ancient  families  have  no 
influence  any  further  than  as  they  scatter  their  ready  cash ;  and 
neither  gratitude  nor  respect  is  felt  where  there  is  no  bond  of 
mutual  attachment  besides  the  necessities  of  the  present  day. 

I  should  be  happy  if  we  had  only  to  contend  with  this 
spirit  during  our  present  excursion ;  but  the  effect  it  has  up- 
on servants  is  most  pernicious.  Our  family  used  to  be  re^ 
markable  for  having  its  domestics  grow  gray  in  its  service ; 
but  this  expedition  has  already  corrupted  them :  two  we  have 
this  evening  parted  with,  and  the  rest  have  learned  so  much 
of  the  tricks  of  their  station,  that  we  shall  be  obliged  to  dis- 
charge them  as  soon  as  we  return  home. 


124  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

In  the  country,  I  had  been  accustomed  to  do  good  to  the 
poor  :  there  are  charities  here  too ; — we  have  joined  in  a  sub- 
scription for  a  crazy  poetess,  and  a  raffle  for  the  support  of  a 
sharper,  who  passes  under  the  title  of  a  German  count. 
Unfortunately,  to  balance  these  various  expenses,  this  place, 
which  happens  to  be  a  great  resort  of  smugglers,  aifords  daily 
opportunities  of  making  bargains.  We  drink  spoiled  teas, 
under  the  idea  of  their  being  cheap ;  and  the  little  room  we 
have  is  made  less  by  the  reception  of  cargoes  of  India  taffetas, 
shawl-muslins,  and  real  chintzes.  All  my  authority  here 
would  be  exerted  in  vain ;  for  the  buying  of  a  bargain  is  a 
temptation  which  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  any  woman  to  resist. 
I  am  in  hopes,  however,  the  business  may  receive  some 
check  from  an  incident  which  happened  a  little  time  since : 
an  acquaintance  of  ours  had  his  carriage  seized  by  the  cus- 
tom-house officers,  on  account  of  a  piece  of  silk  which  one  of 
his  female  cousins,  without  his  knowledge,  had  stowed  in  it; 
and  it  was  only  released  by  its  being  proved,  that  what  she 
had  bought  with  so  much  satisfaction  as  contraband,  was  in 
reality  the  home-bred  manufacture  of  Spitalfields. 

In  this  manner  has  the  season  passed  away.  I  spend  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  make  no  figure  ;  I  am  in  the  coun- 
try, and  see  nothing  of  country  simplicity  or  country  occupa- 
tions; I  am  in  an  obscure  village,  and  yet  cannot  stir  out 
without  more  observers  than  if  I  were  walking  in  St.  James's 
Park  ;  I  am  cooped  up  in  less  room  than  my  own  dog-kennel, 
while  my  spacious  halls  are  injured  by  standing  empty  ;  and 
I  am  paying  for  tasteless,  unripe  fruit,  while  my  own  choice 
wall-fruit  is  rotting  by  bushels  under  the  trees. 

In   recompense  for  all  this,  we  have  the  satisfaction  of 

knowing  that  we  occupy  the  very  rooms  which  my  lord 

had  just  quitted;  of  picking  up  anecdotes,  true  or  false,  of 
people  in  high  life;  and  of  seizing  the  ridicule  of  every 
character  that  passes  by  us  in  the  moving  show-glass  of  the 
place, — a  pastime  which  often  affords  us  a  good  deal  of 
mirth ;  but  which,  I  confess,  I  can  never  join  in  without  re- 
flecting that  what  is  our  amusement  is  theirs  likewise. 

As  to  the  great  ostensible  object  of  our  excursion, — health, 
— I  am  afraid  we  cannot  boast  of  much  improvement.  We 
have  had  a  wet  and  cold  summer ;  and  these  houses,  which 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  125 

are  either  old  tenements  vamped  up,  or  new  ones  slightly  run 
up  for  the  accommodation  of  bathers  during  the  season,  have 
more  contrivances  for  letting  in  the  cooling  breezes  than  for 
keeping  them  out, — a  circumstance  vi^hich  I  should  presume 
sagacious  physicians  do  not  always  attend  to,  when  they  order 
patients  from  their  own  warm,  compact,  substantial  houses, 
to  take  the  air  in  country  lodgings  ;  of  which  the  best  apart- 
ments, during  the  winter,  have  only  been  inhabited  by  the 
rats,  and  where  the  poverty  of  the  landlord  prevents  him  from 
laying  out  more  in  repairs,  than  will  serve  to  give  them  a 
showy  and  attractive  appearance. 

Be  that  as  it  may ; — the  rooms  we  at  present  inhabit  are  so 
pervious  to  the  breeze,  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  ingenious  ex- 
pedients of  listing  doors,  pasting  paper  on  the  inside  of  cup- 
boards, laying  sand-bags,  puttying  crevices,  and  condemning 
closet-doors,  it  has  given  me  a  severe  touch  of  my  old  rheu- 
matism ;  and  all  my  family  are  in  one  way  or  other  affected 
with  it :  my  eldest  daughter,  too,  has  got  cold  with  her  bath- 
ing, though  the  sea-water  never  gives  any  body  cold ! 

In  answer  to  these  complaints,  I  am  told  by  the  good  com- 
pany here,  that  I  have  staid  too  long  in  the  same  air,  and 
that  now  I  ought  to  take  a  trip  to  the  continent,  and  spend 
the  winter  at  Nice,  which  would  complete  the  business.  I 
am  entirely  of  their  opinion,  that  it  would  complete  the 
business. 


LESSON  LIV. 

The    Tear  of  Peiiitence ;  an  Extract  from  "  Paradise  and 
the  Peri" — T.    Moore. 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses, 
Softly  the  light  of  eve  reposes, 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon  ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet, 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 
11* 


126  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

To  one,  who  looked  from  upper  air 

O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there, 

How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 

The  life,  the  sparkling  from  below ! 

Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 

Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, — 

More  golden  where  the  sun-light  falls  ; 

Gay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls 

Of  ruined  shrines,  busy  and  bright 

As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 

And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 

Of  pigeons  settling  on  the  rocks, 

With  their  rich,  restless  wings,  that  gleam 

Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 

Of  the  warm  west,  as  if  inlaid 

With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 

Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  span 

The  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan  ! 

And,  then,  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 

Of  shepherds'  ancient  reed,  with  hum 

Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting  through  the  flowery  vales ; 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods  so  full  of  nightingales ! 

But  nought  can  charm  the  luckless  Peri; 
Her  soul  is  sad,  her  wings  are  weary — 
Joyless  she  sees  the  Sun  look  down 
On  that  great  temple,  once  his  own,* 
Whose  lonely  columns  stand    sublime, 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high, 
Like  dials,  which  the  wizard.  Time, 

Had  raised  to  count  his  ages  by ! 

Yet  haply  there  may  lie  concealed, 

Beneath  those  chambers  of  the  sun, 
Some  amulet  of  gems,  annealed 
In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  sealed 
With  the  great  name  of  Solomon, 

*  The  Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Balbec. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK-  ^ 

Which,  spelled  by  her  illumined  eyes, 
May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  moon, 
In  earth  or  ocean,  lies  the  boon, 
The  charm,  that  can  restore,  so  soon, 

An  erring  spirit  to  the  skies  ! 

Cheered  by  this  hope,  she  bends  her  thither ; 

Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 

Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  even, 
In  the  rich  west,  begun  to  wither ; 
When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play. 
Among  the  rosy  wild-flowers  singing, 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
The  beautiful  blue  damsel  flies. 
That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems. 
Like  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems ; 
And  near  the  boy,  who,  tired  with  play. 
Now,  nestling  mid  the  roses,  lay. 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

From  his  hot  steed,  and,  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  rustic  fount. 

Impatient,  fling  him  down  to  drink. 

Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turned 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat. 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burned 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that, — 
Sullenly  fierce — a  mixture  dire. 
Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire ! 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed ; 
The  ruined  maid,  the  shrine  profaned. 
Oaths  broken,  and  the  threshold  stained 
With  blood  of  guests  !  there  written,  all. 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  angel's  pen. 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again  ! 


128  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK, 

Yet  tranquil,  now,  that  man  of  crime — 
As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Softened  his  spirit — looked  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play  : 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze, 
As  torches,  that  have  burned  all  night, 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But  hark !  the  vesper  call  to  prayer. 

As  slow  the  orb  of  day-light  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air. 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets ! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head. 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 
Lisping  the  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  "cherub  mouth ; 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again  ! 
Oh  !  'twas  a  sight — that  heaven — that  child— 
A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
Even  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost,  and  peace  gone  by. 

And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  man 
Reclining  there — while  memory  ran 
O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 
Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life. 
Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 
Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace  1 
•*  There  2ms  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild. 
Heart-humbled  tones,  "  thou  blessed  child. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  |^ 

When,  young,  and,  haply,  pure  as  thou, 
I  looked  and  prayed  like  thee ;  but  now — " 
He  hung  his  head ;  each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept! 

Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 
*       *       *       *       ^       * 
And  now  behold  him  kneeling  there. 
By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer. 
While  the  same  sun-beam  shines  upon 
The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one. 
And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  heaven 
The  triumph  of  a  soul  forgiven. 


LESSON  LV. 

Character  and  Decay  of  the  North  American  Indians. — 
Story. 

There  is,  in  the  fate  of  the  unfortunate  Indians,  much  to 
awaken  our  sympathy,  and  much  to  disturb  the  sobriety  of 
our  judgment;  much  which  may  be  urged  to  excuse  their 
own  atrocities ;  much  in  their  characters,  which  betrays  us 
into  an  involuntary  admiration.  What  can  be  more  melan- 
clioly  than  their  history  ?  By  a  law  of  their  nature,  they 
seem  destined  to  a  slow,  but  sure  extinction.  Every  where, 
at  the  approach  of  the  white  man,  they  fade  away.  We 
hear  the  rustling  of  their  footsteps,  like  that  of  the  withered 
leaves  of  autumn,  and  they  are  gone  forever.  They  pass 
mournfully  by  us,  and  they  return  no  more. 

Two  centuries  ago,  the  smoke  of  their  wigwams  and  the 
fires  of  their  councils,  rose  in  every  valley,  from  Hudson's 
Bay  to  the  farthest  Florida,  from  the  ocean  to  the  Mississippi 


130  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

and  the  lakes.  The  shouts  of  victory  and  the  war-dance 
rung  through  the  mountains  and  the  glades.  The  thick  ar- 
rows and  the  deadly  tomahawk  whistled  through  the  forests ; 
and  the  hunter's  trace,  and  the  dark  encampment,  startled 
the  wild  beasts  in  their  lairs. 

The  warriors  stood  forth  in  their  glory.  The  young  li*. 
tened  to  the  songs  of  other  days.  The  mothers  played  with 
their  infants,  and  gazed  on  the  scene  with  warm  hopes  of  the 
future.  The  aged  sat  down ;  but  they  wept  not.  They 
should  soon  be  at  rest  in  fairer  regions,  where  the  Great 
Spirit  dwelt,  in  a  home  prepared  for  the  brave  beyond  the 
western  skies.  Braver  men  never  lived ;  truer  men  never 
drew  the  bow.  They  had  courage,  and  fortitude,  and  sa^ 
gacity,  and  perseverance,  beyond  most  of  the  human  race. 
They  shrunk  from  no  dangers,  and  they  feared  no  hardships. 

If  they  had  the  vices  of  savage  life,  they  had  the  virtues 
also.  They  were  true  to  their  country,  their  friends  and 
their  homes.  If  they  forgave  not  injury,  neither  did  they 
forget  kindness.  If  their  vengeance  was  terrible,  their  fidel» 
ity  and  generosity  were  unconquerable  also.  Their  love, 
like  their  hate,  stopped  not  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  But 
where  are  they?  Where  are  the  villages,  and  warriors,  and 
youth  ?  the  sachems  and  the  tribes  ?  the  hunters  and 
their  families  ?  They  have  perished.  They  are  consumed. 
The  wasting  pestilence  has  not  alone  done  the  mighty  work. 
No, — nor  famine,  nor  war.  There  has  been  a  mightier  pow- 
er, a  moral  canker,  which  hath  eaten  into  their  heart-cores  j 
a  plague,  which  the  touch  of  the  white  man  communicated  j 
a  poison,  which  betrayed  them  into  a  lingering  ruin. 

The  winds  of  the  Atlantic  fan  not  a  single  region,  which 
they  may  now  call  their  own.  Already  the  last  feeble 
remnants  of  the  race  are  preparing  for  their  journey  beyond 
tlie  Mississippi.  I  see  them  leave  their  miserable  homes,  the 
aged,  the  helpless,  the  women  and  the  warriors,  "  few  and 
faint,  yet  fearless  still."  The  ashes  are  cold  on  their  native 
hearths.  The  smoke  no  longer  curls  round  their  lowly 
cabins.  They  move  on  with  a  slow,  unsteady  step.  The 
white  man  is  upon  their  heels,  for  terror  or  despatch;  but 
they  heed  him  not.  They  turn  to  take  a  last  look  of  their 
deserted  villages.     They  cast  a  last  glance  upon  the  graves 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  131 

of  their  fathers.  They  shed  no  tears ;  they  utter  no  cries ; 
they  heave  no  groans. 

There  is  something  in  their  hearts,  which  passes  speech. 
There  is  something  in  their  looks,  not  of  vengeance  or  submis- 
sion, but  of  hard  necessity,  vi^hich  stifles  both  ;  which  chokes 
all  utterance  ;  which  has  no  aim  nor  method.  It  is  courage 
absorbed  in  despair.  They  linger  but  for  a  moment.  Their 
look  is  onward.  They  have  passed  the  fatal  stream.  It 
shall  never  be  repassed  by  them, — no,  never.  Yet  there 
lies  not  between  us  and  them  an  impassable  gulf  They 
know,  and  feel,  that  there  is  for  them  still  one  remove  farther, 
not  distant,  nor  unseen.  It  is  to  the  general  burial-ground 
of  their  race. 

Reason  as  we  may,  it  is  impossible  not  to  read,  in  such  a 
fate,  much  that  we  know  not  how  to  interpret;  much  of 
provocation  to  cruel  deeds  and  deep  resentments ;  much  of 
apology  for  wrong  and  perfidy  ;  much  of  pity  mingling  with 
indignation ;  much  of  doubt  and  misgiving  as  to  the  past ; 
much  of  painful  recollections;  much  of  dark  foreboding. 

Philosophy  may  tell  us,  that  conquest  in  other  cases  has 
adopted  the  conquered  into  its  own  bosom ;  and  thus,  at  no 
distant  period,  given  them  the  common  privileges  of  subjects ; 
but  that  the  red  men  are  incapable  of  such  an  assimilation. 
By  their  very  nature  and  character,  they  can  neither  unite 
themselves  with  civil  institutions,  nor  with  safety  be  allowed 
to  remain  as  distinct  communities. 

Policy  may  suggest,  that  their  ferocious  passions,  their 
independent  spirit,  and  their  wandering  life,  disdain  the 
restraints  of  society ;  that  they  will  submit  to  superior  force 
only  while  it  chains  them  to  the  earth  by  its  pressure.  A 
wilderness  is  essential  to  their  habits  and  pursuits.  They 
can  neither  be  tamed  nur  overawed.  They  subsist  by  war  or 
hunting ;  and  the  game  of  the  forest  is  relinquished  only  for 
the  nobler  game  of  man.  The  question,  therefore,  is  neces- 
sarily reduced  to  the  consideration,  whether  the  country  itself 
shall  be  abandoned  by  civilized  man,  or  maintained  by  his 
sword  as  the  right  of  the  strongest. 

It  may  be  so ;  perhaps,  in  the  wisdom  of  Providence,  it 
must  be  so.  I  pretend  not  to  comprehend,  or  solve,  such 
weighty  difficulties.     But  neither  philosophy  nor  policy  can 


132  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

shut  out  the  feelings  of  nature.  Humanity  must  continue  to 
sigh  at  the  constant  sacrifices  of  this  bold,  but  wasting  race. 
And  Religion,  if  she  may  not  blush  at  the  deed,  must,  as  she 
sees  the  successive  victims  depart,  cling  to  the  altar  with  a 
drooping  heart,  and  mourn  over  a  destiny  without  hope  and 
without  example. 


LESSON  LVI. 

Melancholy  Fate  of  the  Indians. — C.  Sprague, 

I  VENERATE  the  pilgrim's  cause, 
Yet  for  the  red  man  dare  to  plead: 
We  bow  to  Heaven's  recorded  laws, 
He  turned  to  nature  for  a  creed ; 
Beneath  the  pillared  dome. 
We  seek  our  God  in  prayer  ; 
Through  boundless  woods  he  loved  to  roam, 
And  the  Great  Spirit  worshipped  there ; 

But  one,  one  fellow-throb  with  us  he  felt ; 

To  one  divinity  with  us  he  knelt — 

Freedom,  the  self-same  freedom  we  adore. 

Bade  him  defend  his  violated  shore. 

He  saw  the  cloud,  ordained  to  grow, 

And  burst  upon  his  hills  in  wo ; 

He  saw  his  people  withering  by, 

Beneath  the  invader's  evil  eye  ; 
Strange  feet  were  trampling  on  his  fathers'  bones ; 

At  midnight  hour,  he  woke  to  gaze 

Upon  his  happy  cabin's  blaze. 
And  listen  to  his  children's  dying  groans. 

He  saw,  and,  maddening  at  the  sight. 

Gave  his  bold  bosom  to  the  fight  ; 

To  tiger  rage  his  soul  was  driven; 

Mercy  was  not — nor  sought  nor  given  ; 

The  pale  man  from  his  lands  must  fly ; 

He  would  be  free— or  he  would  die. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  was  this  savage  ?  Say, 
Ye  ancient  few, 
Who  struggled  through 
Young  freedom's  trial-day, 
What  first  your  sleeping  wrath  awoke  1 
On  your  own  shores  war's  larum  broke  : 
What  turned  to  gall  even  kindred  blood  ? 
Round  your  own  homes  the  oppressor  stood : 
This  every  warm  affection  chilled, 
This  every  heart  with  vengeance  thrilled, 
And  strengthened  every  hand  ; 
From  mound  to  mound, 
The  word  went  round — 
"  Death  for  our  native  land  !" 

Ye  mothers,  too,  breathe  ye  no  sigh, 
For  them  who  thus  could  dare  to  die  ? 
Are  all  your  own  dark  hours  forgot. 

Of  soul-sick  suffering  here, — 
Your  pangs,  as  from  yon  mountain  spot,* 
Death  spoke  in  every  boommg  shot, 
That  knelled  upon  your  ear  1 
How  oft  that  gloomy,  glorious  tale  ye  tell. 
As  round  your  knees  your  children's  children  hang. 
Of  them,  the  gallant  ones,  ye  loved  so  well, 
Who  to  the  conflict  for  their  country  sprang 
In  pride,  in  all  the  pride  of  wo, 
Ye  tell  of  them,  the  brave,  laid  low, 

Who  for  their  birthplace  bled  ; 

In  pride,  the  pride  of  triumph  then. 

Ye  tell  of  them,  the  matchless  men, 

From  whom  the  invaders  fled. 

And  ye,  this  holy  place  who  throng, 
The  annual  theme  to  hear, 
And  bid  the  exulting  song 
Sound  their  great  names  from  year  to  year ; 
Ye,  who  invoke  the  chisel's  breathing  grace, 
In  marble  majesty  their  forms  to  trace ; 
•  Bunker  Hill. 

12 


133 


131  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Ye,  who  the  sleeping  rocks  would  raise, 
To  guard  their  dust  and  speak  their  praise ; 

Ye,  who,  should  some  other  band 
With  hostile  foot  defile  the  land. 

Feel  that  ye,  like  them,  would  wake, 
Like  them  the  yoke  of  bondage  break. 
Nor  leave  a  battle-blade  undrawn. 
Though  every  hill  a  sepulchre  should  yawn — 
Say,  have  not  ye  one  line  for  those. 

One  brother-line  to  spare, 
Who  rose  but  as  your  fathers  rose. 

And  dared  as  ye  would  dare  ? 

Alas !  for  them, — their  day  is  o'er. 
Their  fires  are  out  from  hill  and  shore  : 
No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds ; 
The  plough  is  on  their  hunting  grounds ; 
The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through  their  woods, 
The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods. 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry ; 
Their  children — look  !  by  power  oppressed. 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west, 

Their  children  go — to  die. 

O  doubly  lost !  Oblivion's  shadows  close 

Around  their  triumphs  and  their  woes. 

On  other  realms,  whose  suns  have  set. 

Reflected  radiance  lingers  yet ; 

There,  sage  and  bard  have  shed  a  light 

That  never  shall  go  down  in  night ; 

There,  time-crowned  columns  stand  on  high, 

To  tell  of  them  who  cannot  die ; 

Even  we,  who  then  were  nothing,  kneel 
In  homage  there,  and  join  earth's  general  peal. 
But  the  doomed  Indian  leaves  behind  no  trace, 
To  save  his  own,  or  serve  another  race : 
With  his  frail  breath  his  power  has  passed  away ; 
His  deeds,  his  thoughts,  are  buried  with  his  clay. 

Nor  lofty  pile,  nor  glowing  page, 

Shall  link  him  to  a  future  age, 


YOUNG  LADIES*  CLASS  BOOK.         1^ 

Or  give  him  with  the  past  a  rank : 
His  heraldry  is  but  a  broken  bow, 
His  history  but  a  tale  of  wrong  and  wo, 

His  very  name  must  be  a  blank. 

Cold,  with  the  beast  he  slew,  he  sleeps ; 

O'er  him  no  filial  spirit  weeps ; 
No  crowds  throng  round,  no  anthem-notes  ascend, " 
To  bless  his  coming  and  embalm  his  end  ; 
Even  that  he  lived,  is  for  his  conqueror's  tongue, — 
By  foes  alone  his  death-song  must  be  sung ; 

No  chronicles  but  theirs  shall  tell 
His  mournful  doom  to  future  times  ; 

May  these  upon  his  virtues  dwell, 
And  in  his  fate  forget  his  crimes. 


LESSON  LVn. 

Concluding  Lines  of  the  "Fall  of  the  Indian" — McLELUjr. 

Yet  sometimes,  in  the  gay  and  noisy  street 
Of  the  great  city,  which  usurps  the  place 
Of  the  small  Indian  village,  one  shall  see 
Some  miserable  relic  of  that  race, 
Whose  sorely-tarnished  fortunes  we  have  sung  ;— 
Yet  how  debased  and  fallen  !  In  his  eye 
The  flame  of  noble  daring  is  gone  out, 
And  his  brave  face  has  lost  its  martial  look. 
His  eye  rests  on  the  earth,  as  if  the  grave 
Were  his  sole  hope,  his  last  and  only  home. 
A  poor,  thin  garb  is  wrapped  about  his  frame, 
Whose  sorry  plight  but  mocks  his  ancient  state ; 
And  in  the  bleak  and  pitiless  storm  he  walks 
With  melancholy  brow,  and  shivers  as  he  goes. 
His  pride  is  dead ;  his  courage  is  no  more ; 
His  name  is  but  a  by-word.     All  the  tribes. 
Who  called  this  mighty  continent  their  own, 
Are  homeless,  friendless  wanderers  on  earth ! 


X36  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  LVIII. 
Death-Song  of  OutaUssi.-—CAMTBEUu, 

"And  I  could  weep,"— the  Oneida  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun, — 
"  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-song  of  my  father's  son, 
Or  bow  this  head  in  wo ; 

For,  by  my  wrongs  and  by  my  wrath, 

To-morrow,  Areouski's  breath. 

That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death, 
Shall  light  us  to  the  foe  : 

And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy, 

The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy ! 

"  But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 
By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 
Forbid  not  thee  to  weep : 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 

Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve. 
Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 

Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight. 
Thy  sun — ^thy  heaven — of  lost  delight. 

"To-morrow,  let  us  do  or  die  ! 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurled. 
Ah !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly  ? 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 
Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropped  its  flowers : 

Unheard  the  clock  repeats  its  hours  ; 

Cold  is  the  hearth  within  those  bowers ; 
And  should  we  thither  roam. 

Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread. 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  ^gy 

"  Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaffed, 
And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 
Ah !  there,  in  desolation  cold. 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone. 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone, 

And  stones  themselves,  to  ruin  grown, 
Like  me  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp ;  for  there 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair. 

"  But  hark !  the  trump ! — to-morrow,  thou 

In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears : 
Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 

My  father's  awful  ghost  appears. 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll : 

He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst, — 

He  bids  me  dry  the  last,  the  first, 

The  only  tears,  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul ; 

Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-sonsf  of  an  Indian  chief." 


LESSON   LIX. 

Portrait  of  a  worldly-minded  'Wo7nan. — Freeman. 

A  WOMAN  has  spent  her  youth  without  the  practice  of  any 
remarkable  virtue,  or  the  commission  of  any  thing  which 
is  flagrantly  wrong;  and  she  is  now  united  with  a  man, 
whose  moral  endowments  are  not  more  distinguished  than 
her  own ;  but  who  is  industrious,  rich  and  prosperous. 
Against  the  connexion  she  had  no  objection ;  and  it  is  what 
her  friends  entirely  approved.  His  standing  in  life  is  respec- 
table ;  and  they  both  pass  along  without  scandal,  but  without 
much  approbation  of  their  own  consciences,  and  without  any 
loud  applause  from  others ;  for  the  love  of  the  world  is  the 
12* 


138  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

principle,  which  predominates  in  their  bosoms ;  and  the  world 
never  highly  praises  its  own  votaries. 

She  is  not  absolutely  destitute  of  the  external  appearance 
of  religion ;  for  she  constantly  attends  church  in  the  after- 
noon, unless  she  is  detained  by  her  guests ;  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, unless  she  is  kept  at  home  by  a  slight  indisposition,  or 
unfavorable  weather,  which,  she  supposes,  happen  more  fre- 
quently on  Sundays  than  other  days ;  and  which,  it  must  be 
confessed,  are  several  degrees  less  inconvenient  and  less  un- 
pleasant, than  similar  causes,  which  prevent  her  from  going 
to  a  party  of  pleasure.  This,  however,  is  the  end  of  her 
religion,  such  as  it  is ;  for  when  she  is  at  church,  she  does 
not  think  herself  under  obligations  to  attend  to  what  is  pass- 
ing there,  and  to  join  in  the  worship  of  her  Maker. 

She  cannot,  with  propriety,  be  called  a  woman  professing 
godliness  ;  for  she  makes  no  public  profession  of  love  to  her 
Savior :  she  does  only  what  is  customary ;  and  she  would  do 
still  less,  if  the  omission  was  decorous.  Of  domestic  religion, 
there  is  not  even  a  semblance.  As  her  husband  does  not 
think  proper  to  pray  with  his  family,  so  she  does  not  think 
proper  to  pray  with  her  children,  or  to  instruct  them  in  the 
doctrines  and  duties  of  Christianity.  On  the  gospel,  however, 
no  ridicule  nor  contempt  is  cast ;  and  twice  or  thrice  in  a 
year,  thanks  are  given  to  God  at  her  table, — that  is,  when  a 
minister  of  religion  is  one  of  her  guests. 

No  time  being  consumed  in  devotion,  much  is  left  for  the 
care  of  her  house,  to  which  she  attends  with  worldly  discre- 
tion. Her  husband  is  industrious  in  acquiring  wealth ;  and 
she  is  equally  industrious  in  spending  it  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  keep  up  a  genteel  appearance.  She  is  prudent  in 
managing  her  affiiirs,  and  suffers  nothing  to  be  wasted 
through  thoughtlessness.  In  a  word,  she  is  a  reasonable 
economist;  and  there  is  a  loud  call,  though  she  is  affluent, 
that  she  should  be  so,  as  her  expenses  are  necessarily  great. 

But  she  is  an  economist,  not  for  the  indigent,  but  for  her- 
self; not  that  she  may  increase  her  means  of  doing  good, 
but  that  she  may  adorn  her  person,  and  the  persons  of  her 
children,  with  gold,  and  pearls,  and  costly  array ;  not  that  she 
may  make  a  feast  for  the  poor,  the  maimed,  the  lame,  and 
the  blind,  but  that  she  may  make  a  dinner  or  a  supper  for 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I39 

her  rich  neighbors,  who  will  bid  her  again.  Though  the 
preparations  for  these  expensive  dining  and  evening  parties, 
are  more  irksome  than  the  toils  of  the  common  laborer,  yet 
she  submits  to  them  with  readiness ;  for  she  loves  the  world, 
and  she  loves  the  approbation,  which  she  hopes  the  world 
will  bestow  on  the  brilliancy  of  her  decorations,  and  the  ex- 
quisite taste  of  her  high-seasoned  viands  and  delicious  wines. 

For  this  reputation,' she  foregoes  the  pleasure  which  she 
would  feel,  ir\  giving  bread  to  the  fatherless,  and  in  kindling 
the  cheerful  fire  on  the  hearth  of  the  aged  widow.  Thus, 
though  she  has  many  guests  at  her  board,  yet  she  is  not 
hospitable ;  and  though  she  gives  much  away,  yet  she  is  not 
charitable ;  for  she  gives  to  those  who  stand  in  no  need  of 
her  gifts. 

I  call  not  this  woman  completely  selfish  ;  for  she  loves  her 
family.  She  is  sedulous  in  conferring  on  her  daughters  a 
polite  education,  and  in  settling  them  in  the  world  as  repu- 
tably, as  she  is  established  herself  For  her  sons  she  is 
still  more  anxious,  because  the  sons  of  the  rich  are  too 
much  addicted  to  extravagance  ;  and  she  is  desirous  to  pre- 
serve them  from  dissipations,  which  would  tarnish  the  good 
name,  that  she  would  have  them  enjoy  in  the  world,  and 
which,  above  all,  would  impair  their  fortunes.  But  here  her 
affection  terminates.  She  loves  nothing  out  of  the  bosom  of 
her  own  family :  for  the  poor  and  the  wretched  she  has  no 
regard. 

It  is  not  strictly  accurate  to  say,  that  she  bestows  nothing 
on  them ;  because  she  sometimes  gives  in  public  charities, 
when  it  would  not  be  decent  to  withhold  her  donations ;  and 
she  sometimes  gives  more  privately,  when  she  is  warmly  so- 
licited, and  when  all  her  friends  and  neighbors  give  :  but,  in 
both  cases,  she  concedes  her  alms  with  a  cold  and  unwilling 
mind.  She  considers  it  in  the  same  light  as  her  husband 
views  the  taxes  which  he  pays  to  the  government,  as  a  debt 
which  must  be  discharged,  but  from  which  she  would  be  glad 
to  escape. 

As  a  rational  woman,  however,  must  not  be  supposed  to 
conduct  herself  without  reason,  she  endeavors  to  find  excuses 
for  her  omissions.  Her  first  and  great  apology  is,  that  she 
has  poor  relations  to  provide  for.     In  this  apology  there  is 


140  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

truth.  Mortifying  as  she  feels  it  to  be,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  she  is  clogged  with  indigent  connexions,  who  are  allow- 
ed to  come  to  her  house,  when  she  lias  no  apprehension  that 
they  will  be  seen  by  her  wealthy  visitants.  As  it  would  be 
a  gross  violation  of  decency,  and  what  every  one  would  con- 
demn as  monstrous,  for  her  to  permit  them  to  famish,  when 
she  is  so  able  to  relieve  them,  she  does,  indeed,  bestow 
something  on  them  ;  but  she  gives  if  sparingly,  reluctantly 
and  haughtily.  She  flatters  herself,  however,  that  she  has 
now  done  every  thing  which  can  with  justice  be  demanded 
of  her,  and  that  other  indigent  persons  have  not  a  claim  on 
her  bounty. 

Another  apology  is,  that  the  poor  are  vitious,  and  do  not 
deserve  her  beneficence.  By  their  idleness  and  intemper- 
ance they  have  brought  themselves  to  poverty.  They  have 
little  regard  to  truth ;  and  though  it  must  be  allowed  that 
their  distress  is  not  altogether  imaginary,  yet  they  are  ever 
disposed  to  exaggerate  their  sufferings.  Whilst  they  are 
ready  to  devour  one  another,  they  are  envious  toward  the 
rich,  and  the  kindness  of  their  benefactors  they  commonly 
repay  with  ingratitude.  To  justify  these  charges,  she  can 
produce  many  examples ;  and  she  deems  that  they  are  suf- 
ficient excuses  for  her  want  of  humanity.  But  she  forgets, 
in  the  mean  while,  that  the  Christian  woman,  who  sincerely 
loves  God  and  her  neighbor,  in  imitation  of  her  heavenly 
Father,  is  kind  to  the  evil  as  well  as  the  good,  to  the  un- 
thankful as  well  as  the  grateful. 


LESSON  LX. 

Portrait  of  a  selfish  Woman. — Freeman. 

A  YOUNG  WOMAN,  in  a  state  of  prosperity,  is  not  yet  much 
corrupted  by  the  world,  and  has  not  entirely  lost  the  sim- 
plicity and  innocence  of  her  early  years.  She  has  passed 
her  childhood  diligently  and  laudably,  in  the  acquisition  of 
those  elegant  accomplishments,  which  are  so  highly  ornamen- 
tal to  the  daughters  of  the  rich ;  and  she  is  now  the  pride  of 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  141 

her  parents,  and  the  object  of  general  admiration.  Of  religion 
she  has  some  appearance,  for  she  not  only  goes  to  church, 
but  she  attends  there  frequently  and  with  pleasure.  In  truth, 
nothing,  except  a  well-acted  play  or  interesting  novel,  affords 
her  so  much  delight,  as  a  discourse,  which  is  elegantly  com- 
posed, and  eloquently  delivered,  and  which  sparkles  with 
brilliant  metaphors  and  original  similes. 

She  is,  in  particular,  charmed  with  sweet-toned,  pathetic 
Bermons,  which  fill  her  eyes  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  with 
Boft  emotions ;  but  for  those  plain  discourses,  which  probe 
the  human  heart,  which  point  out  the  danger  of  prosperity, 
and  inculcate  the  necessity  of  self-denial  and  humility,  she 
has  very  little  relish.  Humility,  in  particular,  that  grace 
which  is  so  essential  in  the  character  of  a  true  Christian,  is 
a  virtue  to  which  she  is  a  stranger.  She  entertains  an  exalt- 
ed idea  of  her  own  dignity,  and  esteems  nothing  in  this 
world  so  important,  so  sublime,  so  celestial,  as  a  beautiful  and 
accomplished  young  woman.  But  though  she  is  not  hum- 
ble, yet  she  has  somewhat  of  the  appearance  of  humility ;  for 
die  is  modest  in  her  thoughts,  and  delicate  in  her  manners. 

Religion  with  her  is  a  matter  of  taste,  but  not  of  action. 
She  makes  judicious  observations  on  the  sermons  which  she 
hears,  and  on  the  prayers,  as  far  as  they  are  the  subjects  of 
criticism ;  but  she  neither  prays  with  her  heart,  nor  does  she 
receive  with  meekness  into  her  heart  the  engrafted  word. 
Of  godliness  she  has  not  yet  made  a  profession ;  for  this  is  a 
business  which  belongs  to  the  old  and  the  wretched,  and  not 
to  the  young  and  the  cheerful.  Her  behavior  in  her  family 
and  in  society,  however,  may  in  general  be  said  to  be  without 
reproach.  As  she  receives  the  homage  of  every  one  who 
approaches  her,  she  is  careful  to  return  respect ;  and  there  is 
no  want  in  her  of  that  condescension,  which  is  consistent 
with  a  high  degree  of  self-complacence. 

Of  candor  she  possesses,  if  not  a  liberal,  yet  not  an  un- 
usual portion.  She  never  calumniates  any  one ;  and  if  she 
sometimes  makes  herself  merry  with  the  foibles  of  her  ab- 
sent friends,  her  wit  is  without  malice,  and  is  designed  only  to 
excite  the  mirth  of  the  present  company.  In  effect  she  loves, 
or  at  least  thinks  that  she  loves,  her  friends  with  uncommon 
lirdor ;  and  her  private  letters  to  them  are  replete  with  the 


14-2         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

warmest  expressions  of  affection,  with  the  most  generous  and 
disinterested  sentiments. 

For  charity  she  entertains  a  fond  regard.  Charity,  that 
divine  nymph,  which  descends  from  the  skies,  with  an  eye 
beaming  with  benignity,  a  cheek  glowing  with  compassion,  a 
foot  light  as  a  zephyr  silently  stepping  near  the  couch  of  an- 
guish, and  a  soft  hand  gently  opened  for  the  solace  of  the 
daughters  of  wo ;  charity,  which  she  cannot  figuratively  de- 
scribe, without  literally  describing  the  loveliness  of  her  own 
face,  and  the  graces  of  her  own  person  ;  charity  is  so  charm- 
ing a  form,  that  no  mind,  she  thinks,  can  contemplate  her 
without  delightful  emotions.  Her  refined  taste  in  benevo- 
lence, and  the  books  which  she  has  read,  teach  her  highly  to 
value  this  godlike  virtue  ;  and  she  impatiently  longs  for  an 
opportunity  of  displaying  her  liberality  in  such  a  magnificent 
style,  as  to  overwhelm  with  gratitude  the  object  of  her  bounty. 

But  the  sufferer,  whom  she  has  imaged  in  her  mind,  is  as 
elegant  as  herself;  and  though  poor,  yet  without  any  of  the 
mean  concomitants  of  poverty.  For  the  real  poor,  who  daily 
pass  before  her  eyes,  who  are  gross  and  vulgar,  rude  in  their 
speech,  base  in  their  sentiments,  and  squalid  in  their  gar- 
ments, she  has  little  sympathy.  Farthings  would  comfort 
them,  but  she  gives  them  nothing  ;  for  her  ambition  is  to 
pour  handfuls  of  guineas  into  the  lap  of  poor  Maria,  a  lovely 
and  unfortunate  girl,  who  would  thank  her  in  pathetic  and 
polished  language.  Thus  she  passes  her  youth,  praising  and 
affecting  benevolence,  but  without  the  actual  performance  of 
good  works ;  and,  should  not  her  heart  in  season  be  touched 
with  piety  and  Christian  charity,  when  she  enters  the  conju- 
gal state,  she  sinks  into  the  cold  and  selfish  matron. 


LESSON  LXI. 
Fancy  and  Philosophy  contrasted. — Beattie. 

I  CANNOT  blame  thy  choice,  the  sage  replied, 
For  soft  and  smooth  are  fancy's  flowery  ways ; 

And  yet,  even  there,  if  left  without  a  guide, 
The  young  adventurer  unsafely  plays. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  143 

Eyes,  dazzled  long  by  fiction's  gaudy  rays, 
In  modest  truth  no  light  nor  beauty  find : 

And  who,  my  child,  would  trust  the  meteor  blaze, 
That  soon  must  fail,  and  leave  the  wanderer  blind, 
More  dark  and  helpless  far,  than  if  it  ne'er  had  shined  ? 

Fancy  enervates,  while  it  soothes  the  heart, 

And  while  it  dazzles,  wounds  the  mental  sight : 
To  joy  each  heightening  charm  it  can  impart. 

But  wraps  the  hour  of  wo  in  tenfold  night : 

And  often,  where  no  real  ills  affright. 
Its  visionary  fiends,  an  endless  train, 

Assail  with  equal  or  superior  might, 
And  through  the  throbbing  heart,  and  dizzy  brain. 
And  shivering  nerves,  shoot  stings  of  more  than  mortal  pain. 

And  yet,  alas !  the  real  ills  of  life 

Claim  the  full  vigor  of  a  mind  prepared, 
Prepared  for  patient,  long,  laborious  strife, 

Its  guide  experience,  and  truth  its  guard. 

We  fare  on  earth  as  other  men  have  fared : 
Were  they  successful  I     Let  not  us  despair. 

Was  disappointment  oft  their  sole  reward  1 
Yet  shall  their  tale  instruct,  if  it  declare 
How  they  have  borne  the  load  ourselves  are  doomed  to  bear. 

But,  now,  let  other  themes  our  care  engage ; 

For,  lo !  with  modest,  yet  majestic  grace, 
To  curb  imagination's  lawless  rage, 

And  from  within  the  cherished  heart  to  brace. 

Philosophy  appears.     The  gloomy  race, 
By  indolence  and  moping  fancy  bred — 

Fear,  discontent,  solicitude — give  place. 
And  hope  and  courage  brighten  in  their  stead. 
While  on  the  kindling  soul  her  vital  beams  are  shed. 

Then  waken  from  long  lethargy  to  life 

The  seeds  of  happiness  and  powers  of  thought ; 

Then  jarring  appetites  forego  their  strife, 
A  strife  by  ignorance  to  madness  wrought. 


144  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Pleasure  by  savage  man  is  dearly  bought 
With  fell  revenge,  lust  that  defies  control, 

With  gluttony  and  death.     The  mind  untaught 
Is  a  dark  waste,  where  fiends  and  tempests  howl ; 
As  Phoebus  to  the  world,  is  science  to  the  soul. 

And  reason,  now,  through  number,  time  and  space, 

Darts  the  keen  lustre  of  her  serious  eye. 
And  learns,  from  facts  compared,  the  laws  to  trace, 

Whose  long  progression  leads  to  Deity. 

Can  mortal  strength  presume  to  soar  so  high? 
Can  mortal  sight,  so  oft  bedimmed  with  tears, 

Such  glory  bear? — for,  lo!  the  shadows  fly 
From  nature's  face  ;  confusion  disappears. 
And  order  charms  the  eye,  and  harmony  the  ears. 

Many  a  long-lingering  year,  in  lonely  isle. 

Stunned  with  the  eternal  turbulence  of  waves, 

Lo  !  with  dim  eyes,  that  never  learned  to  smile, 
And  trembling  hands,  the  famished  native  craves 
Of  Heaven  his  wretched  fare  :  shivering  in  caves, 

Or  scorched  on  rocks,  he  pines  from  day  to  day  ; 
But  science  gives  the  word;  and,  lo!  he  braves 

The  surge  and  tempest,  lighted  by  her  ray, 
And  to  a  happier  land  wafts  merrily  away. 

And  even  where  nature  loads  the  teeming  plain 

With  the  full  pomp  of  vegetable  store. 
Her  bounty,  unimproved,  is  deadly  bane : 

Dark  woods  and  rankling  wilds,  from  shore  to  shore 

Stretch  their  enormous  gloom  ;  which,  to  explore, 
Even  fancy  trembles  in  her  sprightliest  mood ; 

For  there  each  eyeball  gleams  with  lust  of  gore, 

Nestles  each  murderous  and  each  monstrous  brood ; 

Plague  lurks  in  every  shade,  and  steams  from  every  flood. 

Twas  from  philosophy  man  leaftied  to  tame 
The  soil,  by  plenty  to  intemperance  fed. 

Lo  !  from  the  echoing  axe  and  thundering  flame, 
Poison,  and  plague,  and  yelling  rage  are  fled. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  145 

The  waters,  bursting  from  their  slimy  bed, 
Bring  health  and  melody  to  every  vale : 

And  from  the  breezy  main  and  mountain's  head, 
Ceres  and  Flora,  to  the  sunny  dale. 
To  fan  their  glowing  charms,  invite  the  fluttering  gale. 

What  dire  necessities,  on  every  hand, 

Our  art,  our  strength,  our  fortitude,  require ! 
Of  foes  intestine  what  a  numerous  band 

Against  this  little  throb  of  life  conspire ! 

Yet  science  can  elude  their  fatal  ire 
Awhile,  and  turn  aside  death's  levelled  dart. 

Soothe  the  sharp  pang,  allay  the  fever's  fire, 
And  brace  the  nerves  once  more,  and  cheer  the  heart, 
And  yet  a  few  soft  nights  and  balmy  days  impart. 

Nor  less  to  regulate  man's  moral  frame 

Science  exerts  her  all-composing  sway. 
Flutters  thy  breast  with  fear,  or  pants  for  fame, 

Or  pines,  to  indolence  and  spleen  a  prey. 

Or  avarice,  a  fiend  more  fierce  than  they  ? 
Flee  to  the  shades  of  Academus'  grove. 

Where  cares  molest  not ;  discord  melts  away 
In  harmony,  and  the  pure  passions  prove 
How  sweet  the  words  of  truth,  breathed  from  the  lips  of  love. 

What  cannot  art  and  industry  perform. 

When  science  plans  the  progress  of  their  toilt 
They  smile  at  penury,  disease  and  storm. 

And  oceans  from  their  mighty  mounds  recoil. 

When  tyrants  scourge,  or  demagogues  embroil 
A  land,  or  when  the  rabble's  headlong  rage 

Order  transforms  to  anarchy  and  spoil, 
Deep-versed  in  man,  the  philosophic  sage 
Prepares,  with  lenient  hand,  their  phrensy  to  assuage. 

'Tis  he  alone,  whose  comprehensive  mind, 

From  situation,  temper,  soil  and  clime 
Explored,  a  nation's  various  powers  can  bind. 

And  various  orders,  in  one  form  sublime 
13 


146  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Of  policy,  that,  midst  the  wrecks  of  time. 
Secure  shall  lift  its  head  on  high,  nor  fear 

The  assault  of  foreign  or  domestic  crime ; 
While  public  faith,  and  public  love  sincere, 
And  industry  and  law,  maintain  their  sway  severe. 


LESSON  LXII. 

Extracts  from  "  A  Father^  s  Legacy  to  his  Daughters.^' — 
Gregory. 

There  are  many  circumstances  in  your  situation,  that  pe- 
culiarly require  the  supports  of  religion,  to  enable  you  to  act 
in  them  with  spirit  and  propriety.  Your  whole  life  is  often  a 
life  of  suffering.  You  cannot  plunge  into  business,  or  dissi- 
pate yourselves  in  pleasure  and  riot,  as  men  too  often  do, 
when  under  the  pressure  of  misfortunes.  You  must  bear 
your  sorrows  in  silence,  unknown  and  unpitied.  You  must 
often  put  on  a  face  of  serenity  and  cheerfulness,  when  your 
hearts  are  torn  with  anguish,  or  sinking  in  despair.  Then 
your  only  resource  is  in  the  consolations  of  religion. 

Be  punctual  in  the  stated  performance  of  your  private  devo- 
tions, morning  and  evening.  If  you  have  any  sensibility  or 
imagination,  this  will  establish  such  an  intercourse  between 
you  and  the  Supreme  Being,  as  will  be  of  infinite  conse- 
quence to  you  in  life.  It  will  communicate  an  habitual 
cheerfulness  to  your  tempers,  give  a  firmness  and  steadiness 
to  your  virtue,  and  enable  you  to  go  through  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  human  life  with  propriety  and  dignity. 

Cultivate  an  enlarged  charity  for  all  mankind,  however 
they  may  differ  from  you  in  their  religious  opinions.  That 
difference  may  probably  arise  from  causes  in  which  you  had 
no  share,  and  from  which  you  can  derive  no  merit. 

The  best  effect  of  your  religion  will  be  a  diffusive  humanity 
to  all  in  distress.  Set  apart  a  certain  proportion  of  your  in- 
come as  sacred  to  charitable  purposes.  But  in  this,  as  well 
as  in  the  practice  of  every  other  duty,  carefully  avoid  osten- 
tation.    Vanity  is  always  defeating  her  own  purposes.    Fame 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  147 

is  one  of  the  natural  rewards  of  virtue.  Do  not  pursue  her, 
and  she  will  follow  you. 

Do  not  confine  your  charity  to  giving  money.  You  may 
have  many  opportunities  of  showing  a  tender  and  compas- 
sionate spirit,  where  your  money  is  not  wanted.  There  is  a 
false  and  unnatural  refinement  in  sensibility,  which  makes 
some  people  shun  the  sight  of  every  object  in  distress.  Never 
indulge  this,  especially  where  your  friends  or  acquaintances 
are  concerned.  Let  the  days  of  their  misfortunes,  when  the 
world  forgets  or  avoids  them,  be  the  season  for  you  to  exer- 
cise your  humanity  and  friendship.  The  sight  of  human 
misery  softens  the  heart,  and  makes  it  better :  it  checks  the 
pride  of  health  and  prosperity  ;  and  the  distress  it  occasions 
is  amply  compensated  by  the  consciousness  of  doing  your 
duty,  and  by  the  secret  endearment  which  nature  has  annexed 
to  all  our  sympathetic  sorrows. 

One  of  the  chief  beauties  in  a  female  character,  is  that 
modest  reserve,  that  retiring  delicacy,  which  avoids  the  public 
eye,  and  is  disconcerted  even  at  the  gaze  of  admiration.  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  be  insensible  to  applause.  If  you  were, 
you  must  become,  if  not  worse,  at  least  less  amiable  women. 
But  you  may  be  dazzled  by  that  admiration,  which  yet  re- 
joices your  hearts. 

When  a  girl  ceases  to  blush,  she  has  lost  the  most  powerful 
charm  of  beauty.  That  extreme  sensibility,  which  it  indi- 
cates, may  be  a  weakness  and  encumbrance  in  our  sex ;  but 
in  yours,  it  is  peculiarly  engaging.  Pedants,  who  think 
themselves  philosophers,  ask  why  a  woman  should  blush, 
when  she  is  conscious  of  no  crime.  It  is  a  sufficient  answer, 
that  nature  has  made  you  to  blush  when  you  are  guilty  of  no 
fault,  and  has  forced  us  to  love  you  because  you  do  so. 
Blushing  is  so  far  from  being  necessarily  an  attendant  on 
guilt,  that  it  is  the  usual  companion  of  innocence. 

This  modesty,  which  I  think  so  essential  in  your  sex,  will 
naturally  dispose  you  to  be  rather  silent  in  company,  espe- 
cially in  a  large  one.  People  of  sense  and  discernment  will 
never  mistake  such  silence  for  dulness.  One  may  take  a 
share  in  conversation  without  uttering  a  syllable.  The  ex- 
pression in  the  countenance  shows  it,  and  this  never  escapes 
an  observing  eye. 


148  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Wit  is  the  most  dangerous  talent  you  can  possess.  It 
must  be  guarded  with  great  discretion  and  good  nature,  oth- 
erwise it  will  create  you  many  enemies.  Wit  is  perfectly 
consistent  with  softness  and  delicacy ;  yet  they  are  seldom 
found  united.  Wit  is  so  flattering  to  vanity,  that  they  who 
possess  it,  become  intoxicated,  and  lose  all  self-command. 

Humor  is  a  different  quality.  It  will  make  your  company 
much  solicited ;  but  be  cautious  how  you  indulge  it.  It  is 
often  a  great  enemy  to  delicacy,  and  a  still  greater  one  to 
dignity  of  character.  It  may  sometimes  gain  you  applause, 
but  will  never  procure  you  respect. 


LESSON  LXIII. 

The  same, — concluded. 

Beware  of  detraction,  especially  where  your  own  sex  are 
concerned.  You  are  generally  accused  of  being  particularly 
addicted  to  this  vice — I  think,  unjustly.  Men  are  fully  as 
guilty  of  it,  when  their  interests  interfere.  As  your  interests 
more  frequently  clash,  and  as  your  ffeelings  are  quicker  than 
ours,  your  temptations  to  it  are  more  frequent.  For  this 
reason,  be  particularly  tender  of  the  reputation  of  your  own 
sex,  especially  when  they  happen  to  rival  you  in  our  regards. 
We  look  on  this  as  the  strongest  proof  of  dignity  and  true 
greatness  of  mind. 

Have  a  sacred  regard  to  truth.  Lying  is  a  mean  and  des- 
picable vice.  I  have  known  some  women  of^excellent  parts, 
who  were  so  much  addicted  to  it,  that  they  could  not  be 
trusted  in  the  relation  of  any  story,  especially  if  it  contained 
any  thing  of  the  marvellous,  or  if  they  themselves  were  the 
heroines  of  the  tale.  This  weakness  did  not  proceed  from  a 
bad  heart,  but  was  merely  the  effect  of  vanity,  or  an  unbridled 
imagination.  I  do  not  mean  to  censure  that  lively  embellish- 
ment of  a  humorous  story,  which  is  only  intended  to  promote 
innocent  mirth. 

There  is  a  certain  gentleness  of  spirit  and  manners  ex- 
tremely engaging  in  your  sex ;  not  that  indiscriminate  atten- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I49 

tion,  that  unmeaning  simper,  which  smiles  on  all  alike. 
This  arises,  either  from  an  affectation  of  softness,  or  from 
perfect  insipidity. 

Let  me  recommend  to  your  attention,  that  elegance,  which 
is  not  so  much  a  quality  itself,  as  the  high  polish  of  every 
other.  It  is  what  diffuses  an  ineffable  grace  over  every  look, 
every  motion,  every  sentence  you  utter.  It  gives  that  charm 
to  beauty,  without  which  it  generally  fails  to  please.  It  is 
partly  a  personal  quality,  in  which  respect  it  is  the  gifl 
of  nature ;  but  I  speak  of  it,  principally,  as  a  quality  of  the 
mind.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  perfection  of  taste  in  life  and 
manners, — every  virtue  and  every  excellency  in  their  most 
graceful  and  amiable  forms. 

'  You  may,  perhaps,  think  that  I  want  to  throw  every  spark 
of  nature  out  of  your  composition,  and  to  make  you  entirely 
artificial.  Far  from  it.  I  wish  you  to  possess  the  most  per- 
fect simplicity  of  heart  and  manners.  I  think  you  may 
possess  dignity  without  pride,  affability  without  meanness, 
and  simple  elegance  without  affectation. 

I  would  particularly  recommend  to  you  those  exercises, 
that  oblige  you  to  be  much  abroad  in  the  open  air,  such  aa 
walking,  and  riding  on  horseback.  These  will  give  vigor  to 
your  constitutions,  and  a  bloom  to  your  complexions.  An 
attention  to  your  health  is  a  duty  you  owe  to  yourselves  and 
to  your  friends.  Bad  health  seldom  fails  to  have  an  influ- 
ence on  the  spirits  and  temper.  The  finest  geniuses,  the 
most  delicate  minds,  have  very  frequently  a  correspondent 
delicacy  of  bodily  constitution,  which  they  are  too  apt  to 
neglect.  Their  luxury  lies  in  reading  and  late  hours,  equal 
enemies  to  health  and  beauty. 

The  domestic  economy  of  a  family  is  entirely  a  woman's 
province,  and  furnishes  a  variety  of  subjects  for  the  exertion 
both  of  good  sense  and  good  taste.  If  you  ever  come  to 
have  the  charge  of  a  family,  it  ought  to  engage  much  of  your 
time  and  attention ;  nor  can  you  be  excused  from  this  by  any 
extent  of  fortune,  though,  with  a  narrow  one,  the  ruin  that 
follows  the  neglect  of  it  may  be  more  immediate. 

Do  not  confine  your  attention  to  dress  to  your  public  ap- 
pearances.    Accustom  yourselves  to  an  habitual  neatness ;  so 
that,  in  the  most  careless  undress,  in  your  most  unguarded 
13* 


150         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

hours,  you  may  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  your  ap- 
pearance. You  will  not  easily  believe  how  much  we  consider 
your  dress  as  expressive  of  your  characters.  Vanity,  levity, 
slovenliness,  folly,  appear  through  it.  An  elegant  simplicity 
is  an  equal  proof  of  taste  and  delicacy. 

In  dancing,  the  principal  points  you  are  to  attend  to,  are 
ease  and  grace.  I  would  have  you  dance  with  spirit :  but 
never  allow  yourselves  to  be  so  far  transported  with  mirth,  as 
to  forget  the  delicacy  of  your  sex.  Many  a  girl,  dancing  in 
the  gaiety  and  innocence  of  her  heart,  is  thought  to  discover 
a  spirit  she  little  dreams  of 

In  the  choice  of  your  friends,  have  your  principal  regard 
to  goodness  of  heart  and  fidelity.  If  they  also  possess  taste 
and  genius,  that  will  make  them  still  more  agreeable  and 
useful  companions.  You  have  particular  reason  to  place 
confidence  in  those,  who  have  shown  affection  for  you  in  your 
early  days,  when  you  were  incapable  of  making  them  any 
return.  This  is  an  obligation  for  which  you  cannot  be  too 
grateful. 

If  you  have  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  any  who  de- 
serve the  name  of  friends,  unbosom  yourself  to  them  with 
the  most  unsuspicious  confidence.  It  is  one  of  the  world's 
maxims,  never  to  trust  any  person  with  a  secret,  the  discovery 
of  which  could  give  you  any  pain  ;  but  it  is  the  maxim  of  a 
little  mind  and  a  cold  heart,  unless  where  it  is  the  effect  of 
frequent  disappointments  and  bad  usage.  An  open  temper, 
if  restrained  but  by  tolerable  prudence,  will  make  you,  on  the 
whole,  much  happier  than  a  reserved,  suspicious  one,  although 
you  may  sometimes  suffer  by  it.  Coldness  and  distrust  are 
but  the  too  certain  consequences  of  age  and  experience  ;  but 
they  are  unpleasant  feelings,  and  need  not  be  anticipated 
before  their  time. 

But,  however  open  you  may  be  in  talking  of  your  own  af- 
fairs, never  disclose  the  secrets  of  one  friend  to  another. 
These  are  private  deposits,  which  do  not  belong  to  you,  nor 
have  you  any  right  to  make  use  of  them. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  jgi 


LESSON  LXIV. 

To  a  Log  of  Wood  upon  the  Fire. — New  Monthly 
Magazine. 

Poor  Log  !  I  cannot  hear  thee  sigh, 
And  groan,  and  hiss,  and  see  thee  die, 

To  warm  a  poet. 
Without  evincing  thy  success, 
And,  as  thou  wanest  less  and  less, 
Inditing  a  farewell  address. 

To  let  thee  know  it. 

Peeping  from  earth,  a  bud  unveiled, 
Some  husky  bourn  or  dingle  hailed 

Thy  natal  hour. 
While  infant  winds  around  thee  blew, 
And  thou  wert  fed  with  silver  dew, 
And  tender  sun-beams,  oozing  through 
i^  Thy  leafy  bower. 

Earth,  water,  air,  thy  growth  prepared ; 
And  if  perchance  some  robin,  scared 

From  neighboring  manor, 
Perched  on  thy  crest,  it  rocked  in  air, 
Making  his  ruddy  feathers  flare 
In  the  sun's  ray,  as  if  they  were 

A  fairy  banner. 

Or  if  some  nightingale  impressed 
Against  thy  branching  top  her  breast, 

Heaving  with  passion, 
And,  in  the  leafy  nights  of  June, 
Outpoured  her  sorrows  to  the  moon. 
Thy  trembling  stem  thou  didst  attune 

To  each  vibration. 


152  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Thou  grew'st  a  goodly  tree,  with  shoots 
Fanning  the  sky,  and  earth-bound  roots 

So  grappled  under, 
That  thou,  whom  perching  birds  could  swing, 
And  zephyrs  rock  with  lightest  wing, 
From  thy  firm  trunk,  unmoved,  didst  fling 

Tempest  and  thunder. 

How  oft  thy  lofty  summits  won 
Morn's  virgin  smile,  and  hailed  the  sun 

With  rustling  motion, — 
How  oft,  in  silent  depths  of  night, 
When  the  moon  sailed  in  cloudless  light, 
Thou  hast  stood  awe-struck  at  the  sight, 

In  hushed  devotion, — 


'Twere  vain  to  ask ;  for,  doomed  to  fall, 
The  day  appointed  for  us  all 

O'er  thee  impended : 
The  hatchet,  with  remorseless  blow, 
First  laid  thee  in  the  forest  low, 
Then  cut  thee  into  logs,  and  so 

Thy  course  was  ended. 


i 


But  not  thine  use ;  for  moral  rules. 
Worth  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools, 

Thou  may'st  bequeath  me ; 
Bidding  me  cherish  those  who  live 
Above  me,  and,  the  more  I  thrive, 
A  wider  shade  and  shelter  give 

To  those  beneath  me. 

So  when,  at  last.  Death  lays  me  low, 
I  may  resign,  as  calm  as  thou. 

My  hold  terrestrial ; 
Like  thine  my  latter  end  be  found 
Diffusing  light  and  warmth  around. 
And  like  thy  smoke  my  spirit  bound 

To  realms  celestial. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I53 

LESSON  LXV. 
A  Family  Scene. — Miss  Ferrier. 

The  first  appearance  of  the  Holm  was  highly  prepossessing. 
It  was  a  large,  handsome-looking  house,  situated  in  a  well- 
wooded  park,  by  the  side  of  a  broad,  placid  river ;  and  an  air 
of  seclusion  and  stillness  reigned  all  around,  which  impressed 
the  mind  with  images  of  peace  and  repose.  The  interior  of 
the  house  was  no  less  promising.  There  was  a  spacious  hall, 
and  a  handsome  staircase,  with  all  appliances  to  boot;  but, 
as  the  party  approached  the  drawing-room,  all  the  luxurious 
indolence  of  thought,  inspired  by  the  tranquillity  of  the 
scenery,  was  quickly  dispelled  by  the  discordant  sounds 
which  issued  from  thence ;  and,  when  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  the  footman  in  vain  attempted  to  announce  the  visiters. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  all  the  chairs  were  collected,  to 
form  a  coach  and  horses  for  the  Masters  and  Misses  Fairbairn. 
One  unruly-looking  urchin  sat  in  front,  cracking  a  long  whip 
with  all  his  might ;  another  acted  as  guard  behind,  and  blew 
a  shrill  trumpet  with  all  his  strength ;  while  a  third,  in  a 
night-cap  and  flannel  lappet,  who  had  somewhat  the  air  of 
having  quarrelled  with  the  rest  of  the  party,  paraded  up  and 
down,  in  solitary  majesty,  beating  a  drum.  On  a  sofa  sat 
Mrs.  Fairbairn,  a  soft,  fair,  genteel-looking  woman,  with  a 
crying  child  about  three  years  old  at  her  side,  tearing 
paper  into  shreds,  seemingly  for  the  delight  of  littering  the 
carpet,  which  was  already  strowed  with  headless  dolls,  tailless 
horses,  and  wheelless  carts.  As  she  rose  to  receive  her  vis- 
iters, it  began  to  scream. 

"  I'm  not  going  away,  Charlotte,  love, — don't  be  frightened," 
said  the  fond  mother,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  pl^sure. 

"  You  shan't  get  up,"  screamed  Charlotte,  seizing  her 
mother's  gown  fiercely,  to  detain  her. 

"  My  darling,  you'll  surely  let  me  go  to  speak  to  uncle — 
good  uncle,  who  brings  you  pretty  things,  you  know ;"  but, 
during  this  colloquy,  uncle  and  the  ladies  had  made  their  way 
to  the  enthralled  mother,  and  the  bustle  of  a  meeting  and 
introduction  was  got  over.      The  footman  obtained  chairs 


J54  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

with  some  difficulty,  and  placed  them  as  close  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house  as  possible,  aware  that,  otherwise,  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  carry  on  even  question  and  answer  amid  the  tu- 
mult that  reigned. 

"  You  find  us  rather  noisy,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Fair- 
bairn  with  a  smile,  and  in  a  manner  which  evidently  meant 
the  reverse ;  "  but  this  is  Saturday,  and  the  children  are  all 
in  such  spirits,  and  they  won't  stay  away  from  me.  Henry, 
my  dear,  don't  crack  your  whip  quite  so  loud,  there's  a  good 
boy — that's  a  new  whip  his  papa  brought  him  from  London ; 
and  he's  so  proud  of  it !  William,  my  darling,  don't  you 
think  your  drum  must  be  tired  now  1  If  I  were  you  I  would 
give  it  a  rest.  Alexander,  your  trumpet  makes  rather  too 
much  noise  :  one  of  these  ladies  has  a  headache ;  wait  till 
you  go  out — there's  my  good  boy, — and  then  you'll  blow  it 
at  the  cows  and  the  sheep,  you  know,  and  frighten  them— 
Oh !  how  you  will  frighten  them  with  it !" 

"  No,  I'll  not  blow  it  at  the  cows ;  I'll  blow  it  at  the  horses, 
because  then  they'll  think  'tis  the  mail-coach."  And  he  was 
running  off,  when  Henry  jumped  down  from  the  coach-box. 

"  No,  but  you  shan't  frighten  them  with  your  trumpet,  for 
I  shall  frighten  them  with  my  whip.  Mamma,  aren't  horses 
best  frightened  with  a  whip  ?" — and  a  struggle  ensued. 

"  Well,  don't  fight,  my  dears,  and  you  shall  both  frighten 
them,"  cried  their  mamma. 

"  No,  I'm  determined  he  shan't  frighten  them  ;  I  shall  do 
it,"  cried  both  together,  as  they  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and 
the  drummer  was  preparing  to  follow. 

*'  William,  my  darling,  don't  you  go  after  these  naughty 
boys ;  you  know  they're  always  very  bad  to  you.  You  know 
they  wouldn't  let  you  into  their  coach  with  your  drum." 
Here  William  began  to  cry. — "Well,  never  mind,  you  shall 
have  a  coacM' of  your  own — a  much  finer  coach  than  theirs; 
I  wouldn't  go  in  to  their  ugly,  dirty  coach ;  and  you  shall 
have — "  Here  something  of  a  consolatory  nature  was  whis- 
pered; William  was  comforted,  and  even  prevailed  upon  to 
relinquish  his  drum  for  his  mamma's  ivory  work-box,  the  con- 
tents of  which  were  soon  scattered  on  the  floor. 

"These  boys  are  gone  without  their  hats,"  cried  Mrs. 
Fairbairn,  in  a  tone  of  distress.     "  Eliza,  my  dear,  pull  the 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  155 

bell  for  Sally  to  get  the  boys'  hats."  Sally  being  despatched 
with  the  hats,  something  like  a  calm  ensued,  in  the  absence 
of  him  of  the  whip  and  the  trumpet ;  but  as  it  will  be  of 
short  duration,  it  is  necessary  to  take  advantage  of  it  in  im- 
proving the  introduction  into  an  acquaintance  with  the  Fair- 
bairn  family. 

Mrs.  Fairbairn  was  one  of  those  ladies,  who,  from  the  time 
she  became  a  mother,  ceased  to  be  any  thing  else.  All  the 
duties,  pleasures,  charities  and  decencies  of  life,  were  hence- 
forth concentrated  in  that  one  grand  characteristic;  every 
object  in  life  was  henceforth  viewed  through  that  single  me- 
dium. Her  own  mother  was  no  longer  her  mother ;  she  was 
the  grandmamma  of  her  dear  infants  :  her  brothers  and  sisters 
were  mere  uncles  and  aunts ;  and  even  her  husband  ceased 
to  be  thought  of  as  her  husband,  from  the  time  he  became  a 
father. 

He  was  no  longer  the  being  who  had  claims  on  her  time, 
her  thoughts,  her  talents,  her  affections  ;>  he  was  simply  Mr. 
Fairbairn,  the  noun  masculine  of  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  and  the 
father  of  her  children.  Happily  for  Mr.  Fairbairn,  he  was 
not  a  person  of  very  nice  feelings,  or  refined  taste ;  and  al- 
though, at  first,  he  did  feel  a  little  unpleasantly,  when  he  saw 
how  much  his  children  were  preferred  to  himself,  yet,  in  time, 
he  became  accustomed  to  it, — then  came  to  look  upon  Mrs. 
Fairbairn  as  the  most  exemplary  of  mothers, — and,  finally, 
resolved  himself  into  the  father  of  a  very  fine  family,  of  which 
Mrs.  Fairbairn  was  the  mother. 

In  all  this  there  was  more  of  selfish  egotism,  and  animal 
instinct,  than  of  rational  affection,  or  Christian  principle  ; 
but  both  parents  piqued  themselves  upon  their  fondness  for 
their  offspring,  as  if  it  were  a  feeling  peculiar  to  themselves, 
and  not  one  they  shared  in  common  with  the  lowest  and 
weakest  of  their  species.  Like  them,  too,  it  was  upon  the 
bodies  of  their  children  that  they  lavished  their  chief  care 
and  tenderness ;  for,  as  to  the  immortal  interests  of  their 
souls,  or  the  cultivation  of  their  minds,  ox  the  improvement 
of  their  tempers,  these  were  but  little  attended  to,  at  least  in 
comparison  with  their  health  and  personal  appearance. 

Alas!  if  there  "be  not  a  gem  so  precious  as  the  human 
soul,"  how  often  do  these  gems  seem  as  pearls  cast  before 


156         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

swine !  for  how  seldom  is  it  that  a  parent's  greatest  care  is 
for  the  immortal  happiness  of  that  being,  whose  precarious 
and,  at  best,  transient  existence  engrosses  her  every  thought 
and  desire !  But,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  like  many  a  fool- 
ish, ignorant  mother,  did  her  best ;  and  had  she  been  satisfied 
with  spoiling  her  children  herself,  for  her  own  private  amuse- 
ment, and  not  have  drawn  in  her  visiters  and  acquaintances 
to  share  in  it,  the  evil  might  have  passed  uncensured.  But, 
instead  of  shutting  herself  up  in  her  nursery,  she  chose  to 
bring  her  nursery  down  to  her  drawing-room ;  and,  instead  of 
modestly  denying  her  friends  an  entrance  into  her  purgatory, 
she  had  a  foolish  pride  in  showing  herself  in  the  midst  of  her 
angels.  In  short,  as  the  best  things,  when  corrupted,  always 
become  the  worst,  so  the  purest  and  tenderest  of  human  af- 
fections, when  thus  debased  by  selfishness  and  egotism,  turn 
to  the  most  tiresome  and  ridiculous  of  human  weaknesses. 


LESSON   LXVL 

The  same, — concluded. 

"  I  HAVE  been  much  to  blame,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  ad- 
dressing Miss  Bell,  in  a  soft,  whining,  sick-child  sort  of  voice, 
"  for  not  having  been  at  Bellevue  long  ago ;  but  dear  little 
Charlotte  has  been  so  plagued  with  her  teeth,  I  could  not 
think  of  leaving  her ;  for  she  is  so  fond  of  me,  she  will  go  to 
nobody  else  :  she  screams  when  her  maid  offers  to  take  her, 
and  she  won't  go  even  to  her  papa." 

"Is  that  possible?"  said  the  major. 

"  I  assure  you  it's  very  true ;  she's  a  very  naughty  girl 
sometimes" — bestowing  a  long  and  rapturous  kiss  on  the-child. 
"  Who  was  it  that  beat  poor  papa  for  taking  her  from  mamma 
last  night?  Well,  don't  cry  :  no,  no,  it  wasn't  my  Charlotte. 
She  knows  every  word  that's  said  to  her,  and  did  from  the 
time  she  was  only  a  year  old." 

"That  is  wonderful !"  said  Miss  Bell;  "  but  how  is  my 
little  favorite,  Andrew?" 

"  He  is  not  very  stout  yet,  poor  little  fellow;  and  we  must 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I57 

be  very  careful  of  him."  Then,  turning  to  Miss  St.  Clair, 
"  Our  little  Andrew  has  had  the  measles ;  and  you  know  the 
dregs  of  the  measles  are  a  serious  thing — much  worse  than 
the  measles  themselves.  Andrew,  Andrew  Waddell,  my  love, 
come  here,  and  speak  to  the  ladies."  And  thereupon  Andrew 
Waddell,  in  a  night-cap,  riding  on  a  stick,  drew  near.  Being 
the  major's  namesake.  Miss  Bell,  in  the  ardor  of  her  attach- 
ment, thought  proper  to  coax  Andrew  Waddell  on  her  knee, 
and  even  to  open  her  watch  for  his  entertainment. 

"  Ah !  I  see  who  spoils  Andrew  Waddell,"  cried  the  delight- 
ed mother. 

The  major  chuckled  ;  Miss  Bell  disclaimed ;  and,  for  the 
time,  Andrew  Waddell  became  the  hero  of  the  piece :  the 
Mains  of  the  measles  were  carefully  pointed  out,  and  all  his 
sufferings  and  sayings  duly  recapitulated.  At  length  Miss 
Charlotte,  indignant  at  finding  herself  eclipsed,  began  to 
scream  and  cry  with  all  her  strength. 

"  It's  her  teeth,  darling  little  thing,"  said  her  mother,  caress- 
ing her. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  her  teeth,  sweet  little  dear,"  said  Miss 
JBell. 

"  It  undoubtedly  must  be  her  teeth,  poor  little  girl,"  said 
the  major. 

"  If  you  will  feel  her  gum,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  putting 
her  own  finger  into  the  child's  mouth,  "  you  will  feel  how 
hot  it  is." 

This  was  addressed  in  a  sort  of  general  way  to  the  compa- 
ny, none  of  whom  seemed  eager  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
privilege,  till  the  major  stepped  forward,  and  having,  with  his 
fore-finger,  made  the  circuit  of  Miss  Charlotte's  mouth,  gave  it 
as  his  decided  opinion,  that  there  was  a  tooth  actually  cutting 
the  skin.  Miss  Bell  followed  the  same  course,  and  confirmed 
the  interesting  fact,  adding,  that  it  appeared  to  her  to  be  "  an 
uncommon  large  tooth." 

At  that  moment,  Mr.  Fairbairn  entered,  bearing  in  his 
arms  another  of  the  family, — a  fat,  sour,  new-waked-looking 
creature,  sucking  its  finger.  Scarcely  was  the  introduction 
over, — "  There's  a  pair  of  legs !"  exclaimed  he,  holding  out 
a  pair  of  thick  purple  stumps  with  red  worsted  shoes  at  the 
end  of  them.  "  I  don't  suppose  Miss  St.  Clair  ever  saw  legs 
14 


158  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

like  these  in  France ;  these  are  porridge  and  milk  legs,  are 
they  not,  Bobby?" 

But  Bobby  continued  to  chew  the  cud  of  his  own  thumb 
in  solemn  silence. 

''  Will  you  speak  to  me,  Bobby  ?"  said  Miss  Bell,  bent  upon 
being  amiable  and  agreeable ;  but  still  Bobby  was  mute. 

"  We  think  this  little  fellow  rather  long  of  speaking,"  said 
Mr.  Fairbairn  ;  "  we  allege  that  his  legs  have  run  away  with 
his  tongue." 

"  How  old  is  he  ?"  asked  the  major. 

"  He  is  only  nineteen  months  and  ten  days,"  answered  his 
mother ;  "  so  he  has  not  lost  much  time ;  but  I  would  rather 
see  a  child  fat  and  thriving,  than  have  it  very  forward." 

"No  comparison!"  was  here  uttered  in  a  breath  by  thr 
major  and  Miss  Bell. 

"  There's  a  great  difference  in  children  in  their  time  of 
speaking,"  said  the  mamma.  "  Alexander  didn't  speak  till  he 
was  two  and  a  quarter ;  and  Henry,  again,  had  a  great  many 
little  words  before  he  was  seventeen  months ;  and  Eliza  and 
Charlotte  both  said  "  mamma"  as  plain  as  I  do,  at  a  year ;  but 
girls  always  speak  sooner  than  boys  :  as  for  William  Pitt  and 
Andrew  Waddell,  the  twins,  they  both  suffered  so  much  from 
their  teething,  that  they  were  longer  of  speaking  than  they 
would  otherwise  have  been  ;  indeed,  I  never  saw  an  infant 
suffer  so  much  as  Andrew  Waddell  did." 

A  movement  was  here  made  by  the  visiters  to  depart. 

"  Oh !  you  mustn't  go  without  seeing  the  baby,"  cried  Mrs. 
Fairbairn.  "  Mr.  Fairbairn,  will  you  pull  the  bell  twice  for 
baby?" 

The  bell  was  twice  rung,  but  no  baby  answered  the  sum- 
mons, 

"  She  must  be  asleep,"  said  Mrs.  Fairbairn ;  "  but  I  will 
take  you  up  to  the  nursery,  and  you  will  see  her  in  her  cra- 
dle." And  Mrs.  Fairbairn  led  the  way  to  the  nursery,  and 
opened  the  shutter,  and  uncovered  the  cradle,  and  displayed 
the  baby. 

"  Just  five  months — uncommon  fine  child — the  image  of 
Mr.  Fairbairn — fat  little  thing — neat  little  hands — sweet  little 
mouth — pretty  little  nose — nice  little  toes,"  were  as  usual 
whispered  over  it. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK,  I59 

Miss  St.  Clair  flattered  herself  the  exhibition  was  now 
over,  and  was  again  taking  leave,  when,  to  her  dismay,  the 
squires  of  the  whip  and  the  trumpet  rushed  in,  proclaiming 
that  it  was  pouring  of  rain.  To  leave  the  house  was  impos- 
sible ;  and,  as  it  was  getting  late,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
staying  dinner. 

The  children  of  this  happy  family  always  dined  at  table, 
and  their  food  and  manner  of  eating  were  the  only  subjects 
of  conversation.  Alexander  did  not  like  mashed  potatoes — 
and  Andrew  Waddell  could  not  eat  broth — and  Eliza  could 
live  upon  fish — and  William  Pitt  took  too  much  small  beer 
— and  Henry  ate  as  much  meat  as  his  papa — and  all  these 
peculiarities  had  descended  to  them  from  some  one  or  other 
of  their  ancestors.  The  dinner  was  simple,  on  account  of 
the  children  ;  and  there  was  no  dessert,  as  Bobby  did  not 
agree  with  fruit.  But  to  make  amends,  Eliza's  sampler  was 
shown,  and  Henry  and  Alexander's  copy-books  were  handed 
round  the  table,  and  Andrew  Waddell  stood  up  and  repeated 
"  My  name  is  Norval,"  from  beginning  to  end,  and  William 
Pitt  was  prevailed  upon  to  sing  the  whole  of  "  God  save  the 
King,"  in  a  little  squeaking,  meally  voice,  and  was  bravoed 
and  applauded  as  though  he  had  been  Braham  himself 

To  paint  a  scene  in  itself  so  tiresome  is,  doubtless,  but  a 
poor  amusement  to  my  reader,  who  must  often  have  endured 
similar  persecution.  For  who  has  not  suffered  from  the  ob- 
trusive fondness  of  parents  for  their  offspring  ?  and  who  has 
not  felt  what  it  was  to  be  called  upon,  in  the  course  of  a 
morning  visit,  to  enter  into  all  the  joys  and  the  sorrows  of  the 
nursery,  and  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  all  the  feats  and  pe- 
culiarities of  the  family  ?  Shakspeare's  anathema  against 
those  who  hated  music,  is  scarcely  too  strong  to  be  applied  to 
those  who  dislike  children.  There  is  much  enjoyment, 
sometimes,  in  making  acquaintance  with  the  little  beings ; 
much  delight  in  hearing  their  artless  and  unsophisticated 
prattle,  and  something  not  unpleasing  even  in  witnessing 
their  little  freaks  and  wayward  humors  ;  but  when  a  tiresome 
mother,  instead  of  allowing  the  company  to  notice  her  child, 
torments  every  one  to  death  in  forcing  or  coaxing  her  child 
to  notice  the  company,  the  charm  is  gone,  and  we  experience 
only  disgust. 


150  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  LXVII. 
Local  Associations. — H.  G.  Otis. 

There  are  none,  who  have  paid  even  a  superficial  atten- 
tion to  the  process  of  their  perceptions,  who  are  not  conscious 
that  a  prolific  source  of  intellectual  pleasures  and  pains,  is 
found  in  our  faculty  of  associating  the  remembrance  of  char- 
acters and  events,  which  have  most  interested  our  affections 
and  passions,  with  the  spot  whereon  the  former  have  lived 
and  the  latter  have  occurred.  It  is  to  the  magic  of  this  local 
influence,  that  we  are  indebted  for  the  charm,  which  recalls 
the  sports  and  pastimes  of  our  childhood,  the  joyous  days  of 
youth,  when  buoyant  spirits  invested  all  surrounding  objects 
with  the  color  of  the  rose. 

It  is  this,  which  brings  before  us,  as  we  look  back  through 
the  vista  of  riper  years,  past  enjoyments  and  afflictions,  as- 
piring hopes  and  bitter  disappointments,  the  temptations  we 
have  encountered,  the  snares  which  have  entangled  us,  the 
dangers  we  have  escaped,  the  fidelity  or  treachery  of  friends. 
It  is  this,  which  enables  us  tr  surround  ourselves  with  the 
images  of  those,  who  were  associates  in  the  scenes  we  con- 
template, and  to  hold  sweet  converse  with  the  spirits  of  the 
departed,  whom  we  have  loved  or  honored  in  the  places 
which  shall  know  them  no  more. 

But  the  potency  of  these  local  associations,  is  not  limited 
to  the  sphere  of  our  personal  experience.  We  are  qualified 
by  it  to  derive  gratification  from  what  we  have  heard  and 
read  of  other  times,  to  bring  forth  forgotten  treasures  from 
the  recesses  of  memory,  and  recreate  fancy  in  the  fields  of 
imagination.  The  regions,  which  have  been  famed  in  sacred 
or  fabulous  history ;  the  mountains,  plains,  isles,  rivers,  cele- 
brated in  the  classic  page ;  the  seas,  traversed  by  the  discov- 
erers of  new  worlds ;  the  fields,  in  which  empires  have  been 
lost  and  won, — are  scenes  of  enchantment  for  the  visiter,  who 
indulges  the  trains  of  perception  which  either  rush  unbidden 
on  his  mind,  or  are  courted  by  its  voluntary  efforts.  This 
faculty  it  is,  which,  united  with  a  disposition  to  use  it  to  ad- 
vantage, alone  gives  dignity  to  the  passion  for  visiting  foreign 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  ^^ 

countries ;  and  distinguishes  the  philosopher,  who  moralizes 
on  the  turf  that  covers  the  mouldering  dust  of  ambition,  val- 
or, or  patriotism,  from  the  fashionable  vagabond,  who  flutters 
among  the  flowers,  which  bloom  over  their  graves. 

Among  all  the  objects  of  mental  association,  ancient  build- 
ings and  ruins  affect  us  with  the  deepest  and  most  vivid 
emotions.  They  were  the  works  of  beings  like  ourselves. 
While  a  mist,  impervious  to  mortal  view,  hangs  over  the 
future,  all  our  fond  imaginings  of  the  things,  which  "eye 
hath  not  seen  nor  ear  heard,"  in  the  eternity  to  come,  are 
inevitably  associated  with  the  men,  the  events  and  things, 
which  have  gone  to  join  the  eternity  that  is  past. 

When  imagination  has  in  vain  essayed  to  rise  beyond  the 
stars,  which  "  proclaim  the  story  of  their  birth,"  inquisitive 
to  know  the  occupations  and  condition  of  the  sages  and  he- 
roes, whom  we  hope  to  join  in  a  higher  empyrean,  she  drops 
her  weary  wing,  and  is  compelled  to  alight  among  the  frag- 
ments of  "gorgeous  palaces  and  cloud-capped  towers,"  which 
cover  their  human  ruins,  and,  by  aid  of  these  localities,  to 
ruminate  upon  their  virtues  and  their  faults,  on  their  deeds 
in  the  cabinet  and  in  the  field,  and  upon  the  revolutions  of  the 
successive  ages  in  which  they  lived.  To  this  propensity  may 
be  traced  the  sublimated  feelings  of  the  man,  who,  familiar 
with  the  stories  of  Sesostris,  the  Pharaohs  and  the  Ptolemies, 
surveys  the  pyramids,  not  merely  as  stupendous  fabrics  of 
mechanical  skill,  but  as  monuments  of  the  pride  and  am- 
bitious folly  of  kings,  and  of  the  debasement  and  oppression 
of  the  wretched  myriads,  by  whose  labors  they  were  raised 
to  the  skies.  To  this  must  be  referred  the  awe  and  contrition, 
which  solemnize  and  melt  the  heart  of  the  Christian,  who 
looks  into  the  holy  sepulchre,  and  believes  he  sees  the  place 
where  the  Lord  was  laid. 

From  this  originate  the  musings  of  the  scholar,  who,  amid 
the  ruins  of  the  Parthenon  and  the  Acropolis,  transports  his 
imagination  to  the  age  of  Pericles  and  Phidias  ; — the  reflec- 
tions of  all,  not  dead  to  sentiment,  who  descend  to  the  sub- 
terranean habitations  of  Pompeii — handle  the  utensils  that 
once  ministered  to  the  wants,  and  the  ornaments  subservient 
to  the  luxury,  of  a  polished  city — behold  the  rut  of  wheels 
14* 


162  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

upon  the  pavement  hidden  for  ages  from  human  sight — and 
realize  the  awful  hour,  when  the  hum  of  industry  and  the 
song  of  joy,  the  wailing  of  the  infant,  and  the  garrulity  of 
age,  were  suddenly  and  forever  silenced  by  the  fiery  deluge, 
which  buried  the  city,  until  accident  and  industry,  after  the 
lapse  of  nearly  eighteen  centuries,  revealed  its  ruins  to  the 
curiosity  and  cupidity  of  the  passing  age. 


LESSON  LXVIII. 
To  Seneca  Lake, — J.  G.  Percival. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream. 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far,  ■ 

And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam. 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar. 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide. 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below. 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  IQQ 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

Oh !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


LESSON  LXIX. 

Lake  Superior. — S.  G.  Goodrich. 

Father  op  lakes,  thy  waters  bend 
Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  view, 

When,  throned  in  heaven,  he  sees  thee  send 
Back  to  the  sky  its  world  of  blue. 

Boundless  and  deep  the  forests  weave 
Their  twilight  shade  thy  borders  o'er, 

And  threatening  cliffs,  like  giants,  heave 
Their  rugged  forms  along  thy  shore. 

Pale  Silence,  mid  thy  hollow  caves. 
With  listening  ear  in  sadness  broods, 

Or  startled  Echo,  o'er  thy  waves. 

Sends  the  hoarse  wolf-notes  of  thy  woods. 

Nor  can  the  light  canoes,  that  glide 
Across  thy  breast  like  things  of  air. 

Chase  from  thy  lone  and  level  tide. 
The  spell  of  stillness  reigning  there. 

Yet  round  this  waste  of  wood  and  wave, 
Unheard,  unseen,  a  spirit  lives. 

That,  breathing  o'er  each  rock  and  cave, 
To  all  a  wild,  strange  aspect  gives. 

The  thunder-riven  oak,  that  flings 
Its  grisly  arms  athwart  the  sky, 

A  sudden,  startling  image  brings 
To  the  lone  traveller's  kindled  eye. 


1(54         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

The  gnarled  and  braided  boughs,  that  show 
Their  dim  forms  in  the  forest  shade, 

Like  wrestling  serpents  seem,  and  throw 
Fantastic  horrors  through  the  glade. 

The  very  echoes,  round  this  shore, 

Have  caught  a  strange  and  gibbering  tone ; 

For  they  have  told  the  war-whoop  o'er, 
Till  the  wild  chorus  is  their  own. 

Wave  of  the  wilderness,  adieu  ; 

Adieu,  ye  rocks,  ye  wilds  and  woods ; 
Roll  on,  thou  element  of  blue. 

And  fill  these  awful  solitudes. 

Thou  hast  no  tale  to  tell  of  man ; — 
God  is  thy  theme.     Ye  sounding  caves, 

Whisper  of  Him,  whose  mighty  plan 
Deems  as  a  bubble  all  your  waves. 


LESSON  LXX. 

Influence  of  the  Female  Character. — Thacher." 

The  influence  of  woman  on  the  intellectual  character 
of  the  community,  may  not  seem  so  great  and  obvious,  as 
upon  its  civilization  and  manners.  One  reason  is,  that  hith- 
erto such  influence  has  seldom  been  exerted  in  the  most 
direct  way  of  gaining  celebrity — the  writing  of  books.  In 
our  own  age,  indeed,  this  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  case ; 
and,  if  we  should  inquire  for  those  persons,  whose  writings, 
for  the  last  half  century,  have  produced  the  most  practical  and 
enduring  effects,  prejudice  itself  must  confess,  that  the  name 
of  more  than  one  illustrious  woman  would  adorn  the  cata- 
logue. 

That  the  society  and  influence  of  woman  have  often 
prompted  and  refined  the  efforts  of  genius,  may  be  granted 
by  the  most  zealous  advocate  for  the  superiority  of  our  sex. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  Jgg 

But  whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  influence  of  the  sex,  in 
these  particulars,  there  is  one  point  of  view  in  which  it  is 
undeniably  great  and  important. 

The  mother  of  your  children  is  necessarily  their  first  instruc- 
ter.  It  is  her  task  to  watch  over  and  assist  their  dawning  fac- 
ulties in  their  first  expansion.  And  can  it  be  of  light  impor- 
tance in  what  manner  this  task  is  performed  ?  Will  it  have  no 
influence  on  the  future  mental  character  of  the  child,  wheth- 
er the  first  lights,  which  enter  its  understanding,  are  received 
from  wisdom  or  folly  1  Are  there  no  bad  mental  habits,  no 
lasting  biases,  no  dangerous  associations,  no  deep-seated  pre- 
judices, which  can  be  communicated  from  the  mother,  the 
fondest  object  of  the  affection  and  veneration  of  the  child  ? 

In  fine,  do  the  opinions  of  the  age  take  no  direction  and  no 
coloring  from  the  modes  of  thinking,  which  prevail  among 
one  half  of  the  minds  that  exist  on  earth  1  Unless  you  are 
willing  to  say,  that  an  incalculably  great  amount  of  mental 
power  is  utterly  wasted  and  thrown  away ;  or  else,  with  a 
Turkish  arrogance  and  brutality,  to  deny  that  womaji  shares 
with  you  in  the  possession  of  a  reasoning  and  immortal  mind ; 
you  must  acknowledge  the  vast  importance  of  the  influence, 
which  the  female  sex  exerts  on  the  intellectual  character  of 
the  community. 

But  it  is  in  its  moral  effects  on  the  mind  and  the  heart  of 
man,  that  the  influence  of  woman  is  most  powerful  and  im- 
portant. In  the  diversity  of  tastes,  habits,  inclinations  and 
pursuits  of  the  two  sexes,  is  found  a  most  beneficent  provision 
for  controlling  the  force  and  extravagance  of  human  passions. 
The  objects  which  most  strongly  seize  and  stimulate  the 
mind  of  man,  rarely  act,  at  the  same  time  and  with  equal 
power,  on  the  mind  of  woman. 

While  he  delights  in  enterprise  and  action,  and  the  exer- 
cise of  the  stronger  energies  of  the  soul,  she  is  led  to  engage 
in  calmer  pursuits,  and  seek  for  gentler  enjoyments.  While 
he  is  summoned  into  the  wide  and  busy  theatre  of  a  conten- 
tious world,  where  the  love  of  power  and  the  love  of  gain, 
in  all  their  innumerable  forms,  occupy  and  tyrannize  over  the 
soul,  she  is  walking  in  a  more  peaceful  sphere ;  and  though 
I  say  not  that  these  passions  are  always  unfelt  by  her,  yet 
they  lead  her  to  the  pursuit  of  very  different  objects.     The 


1C6  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

current,  if  it  draws  its  waters  in  both  from  the  same  source, 
moves  with  her  not  only  in  a  narrower  stream,  and  less  im- 
petuous tide,  but  sets  also  in  a  different  direction.  Hence  it 
is,  that  the  influence  of  the  society  of  woman,  is,  almost  always, 
to  soften  the  violence  of  those  impulses,  which  would  other- 
wise act  with  so  constant  and  fatal  an  influence  on  the  soul 
of  man. 

The  domestic  fireside  is  the  great  guardian  of  society 
against  the  excesses  of  human  passions.  When  man,  after 
his  intercourse  with  the  world, — where,  alas !  he  finds  so  much 
to  inflame  him  with  a  feverous  anxiety  for  wealth  and  dis- 
tinction,— retires,  at  evening,  to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  he 
finds  there  a  repose  for  his  tormenting  cares.  He  finds 
something  to  bring  him  back  to  human  sympathies.  The 
tenderness  of  his  wife,  and  the  caresses  of  his  children,  intro- 
duce a  new  train  of  softer  thoughts  and  gentler  feelings. 
He  is  reminded  of  what  constitutes  the  real  felicity  of  man , 
and,  while  his  heart  expands  itself  to  the  influence  of  the 
simple  and  intimate  delights  of  the  domestic  circle,  the  de- 
mons of  avarice  and  ambition,  if  not  exorcised  from  his 
breast,  at  least  for  a  time,  relax  their  grasp.  How  deplorable 
would  be  the  consequence,  if  all  these  were  reversed ;  and 
woman,  instead  of  checking  the  violence  of  these  passions, 
were  to  employ  her  blandishments  and  charms  to  add  fuel  to 
their  rage !  How  much  wider  would  become  the  empire  of 
guilt !  What  a  portentous  and  intolerable  amount  would  he 
added  to  the  sum  of  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  the  human 
race ! 

But  the  influence  of  the  female  character,  on  the  virtue  of 
man,  is  not  seen  merely  in  restraining  and  softening  the  vio- 
lence of  human  passions.  To  her  is  mainly  committed  the 
task  of  pouring  into  the  opening  mind  of  infancy  its  first  im- 
pressions of  duty,  and  of  stamping  on  its  susceptible  heart 
the  first  image  of  its  God.  Who  will  not  confess  the  influ- 
ence of  a  mother  in  forming  the  heart  of  a  child  ?  What 
man  is  there,  who  cannot  trace  the  origin  of  many  of  the  best 
maxims  of  his  life  to  the  lips  of  her  who  gave  him  birth  ? 
How  wide,  how  lasting,  how  sacred  is  that  part  of  woman's 
influence !  Who  that  thinks  of  it,  who  that  ascribes  any 
moral  effect  to  education,  who  that  believes  that  any  good 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  J67 

may  be  produced,  or  any  evil  prevented  by  it,  can  need  any 
arguments  to  prove  the  importance  of  the  character  and 
capacity  of  her,  who  gives  its  earliest  bias  to  the  infant 
mind? 

There  is  yet  another  mode,  by  which  woman  may  exert  a 
powerful  influence  on  the  virtue  of  a  community.  It  rests 
with  her,  in  a  preeminent  degree,  to  give  tone  and  elevation 
to  the  moral  character  of  the  age,  by  deciding  the  degree  of 
virtue,  that  shall  be  necessary  to  afford  a  passport  to  her  so- 
ciety. The  extent  of  this  influence  has,  perhaps,  never  been 
fully  tried ;  and,  if  the  character  of  our  sex  is  not  better,  it 
is  to  be  confessed  that  it  is,  in  no  trifling  degree,  to  be  ascrib- 
ed to  the  fault  of  yours.  If  all  the  favor  of  woman  were 
given  only  to  the  good ;  if  it  were  known  that  the  charms 
and  attractions  of  beauty,  and  wisdom,  and  wit,  were  reserved 
only  for  the  pure ;  if,  in  one  word,  something  of  a  similar 
rigor  were  exerted  to  exclude  the  profligate  and  abandoned 
of  our  sex  from  your  society,  as  is  shown  to  those,  who  have 
fallen  from  virtue  in  your  own, — how  much  would  be  done 
to  reenforce  the  motives  to  moral  purity  among  us,  and  im- 
press, on  the  minds  of  all,  a  reverence  for  the  sanctity  and 
obligations  of  virtue ! 

The  influence  of  woman  on  the  moral  sentiments  of  soci- 
ety, is  intimately  connected  with  her  influence  on  its  religious 
character ;  for  religion  and  a  pure  and  elevated  morality,  must 
ever  stand  in  the  relation  to  each  other  of  effect  and  cause. 
The  heart  of  woman  is  formed  for  the  abode  of  Christian 
truth ;  and  for  reasons  alike  honorable  to  her  character  and 
to  that  of  the  gospel.  From  the  nature  of  Christianity,  this 
must  be  so.  The  foundation  of  evangelical  religion  is  laid 
in  a  deep  and  constant  sense  of  the  presence,  providence  and 
influence  of  an  invisible  Spirit,  who  claims  the  adoration, 
reverence,  gratitude  and  love  of  his  creatures.  By  man, 
busied  as  he  is  in  the  cares,  and  absorbed  in  the  pursuits,  of 
the  world,  this  great  truth  is,  alas !  too  often  and  too  easily 
forgotten  and  disregarded ;  while  woman,  less  engrossed  by  oc- 
cupation, more  "  at  leisure  to  be  good,"  led  often  by  her  duties 
to  retirement,  at  a  distance  from  many  temptations,  and  en- 
dued with  an  imagination  more  easily  excited  and  raised  than 


IQQ  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

man's,  is  better  prepared  to  admit  and  cherish,  and  be  af- 
fected by,  this  solemn  and  glorious  acknowledgment  of  a 
God. 

Again;  the  gospel  reveals  to  us  a  Savior,  invested  with 
little  of  that  brilliant  and  dazzling  glory,  with  which  con- 
quest and  success  would  array  him  in  the  eyes  of  proud  and 
aspiring  man ;  but  rather  as  a  meek  and  magnanimous  suf- 
ferer, clothed  in  all  the  mild  and  passive  graces,  all  the 
sympathy  with  human  wo,  all  the  compassion  for  human 
frailty,  all  the  benevolent  interest  in  human  welfare,  which 
the  heart  of  woman  is  formed  to  love ;  together  with  all  that 
solemn  and  supernatural  dignity,  which  the  heart  of  woman 
is  formed  peculiarly  to  feel  and  to  reverence.  To  obey  the 
commands,  and  aspire  to  imitate  the  peculiar  virtues,  of  such 
a  being,  must  always  be  more  natural  and  easy  for  her  than 
for  man. 

So,  too,  it  is  with  that  future  life  which  the  gospel  ,unveils, 
where  all  that  is  dark  and  doubtful  in  this  shall  be  explained ; 
where  penitence  shall  be  forgiven,  and  faith  and  virtue  ac- 
cepted ;  where  the  tear  of  sorrow  shall  be  dried,  the  wounded 
bosom  of  bereavement  be  healed ;  where  love  and  joy  shall 
be  unclouded  and  immortal.  To  these  high  and  holy  visions 
of  faith  I  trust  that  man  is  not  always  insensible ;  but  the 
superior  sensibility  of  woman,  as  it  makes  her  feel,  more 
deeply,  the  emptiness  and  wants  of  human  existence  here,  so 
it  makes  her  welcome,  with  more  deep  and  ardent  emotions, 
the  glad  tidings  of  salvation,  the  thought  of  communion  with 
God,  the  hope  of  the  purity,  happiness  and  peace  of  another 
and  a  better  world. 

In  this  peculiar  susceptibility  of  religion  in  the  female 
character,  who  does  not  discern  a  proof  of  the  benignant 
care  of  Heaven  of  the  best  interest  of  man  1  How  wise  it 
is,  that  she,  whose  instructions  and  example  must  have  so 
powerful  an  influence  on  the  infant  mind,  should  be  formed 
to  own  and  cherish  the  most  sublime  and  important  of 
truths !  The  vestal  flame  of  piety,  lighted  up  by  Heaven  in 
the  breast  of  woman,  diffuses  its  light  and  warmth  over  the 
world ; — and  dark  would  be  the  world,  if  it  should  ever  be 
extinguished  and  lost. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  169 

LESSON  LXXI. 
A  Scene  in  a  private  Mad-House. — M.  G.  Lewis. 

Stay,  jailer,  stay,  and  hear  my  wo  ! 

She  is  not  mad  who  kneels  to  thee ; 
For  what  I'm  now,  too  well  I  know, 

And  what  I  was,  and  what  should  be. 
I'll  rave  no  more  in  proud  despair; 

My  language  shall  be  mild,  though  sad ; 
But  yet  I'll  firmly,  truly  swear, 

I  am  not  mad  ;  I  am  not  mad. 

My  tyrant  husband  forged  the  tale. 

Which  chains  me  in  this  dismal  cell  ; 
My  fate  unknown  my  friends  bewail  ; 

Oh  !  jailer,  haste  that  fate  to  tell ; 
Oh !  haste  my  father's  heart  to  cheer  : 

His  heart  at  once  'twill  grieve  and  glad 
To  know,  though  kept- a  captive  here, 

I  am  not  mad ;  I  am  not  mad. 

He  smiles  in  scorn,  and  turns  the  key  ; 

He  quits  the  grate ;  I  knelt  in  vain ; 
His  glimmering  lamp,  still,  still  I  see — 

'Tis  gone,  and  all  is  gloom  again. 
Cold,  bitter  cold ! — No  warmth  !  no  light  I 

Life,  all  thy  comforts  once  I  had  ; 
Yet  here  I'm  chained,  this  freezing  night. 

Although  not  mad ;  no,  no,  not  mad. 

'Tis  sure  some  dream,  some  vision  vain; 

What !  I, — the  child  of  rank  and  wealth, — 
Am  I  the  wretch  who  clanks  this  chain, 

Bereft  of  freedom,  friends  and  health  ? 
Ah!  while  I  dwell  on  blessings  fled. 

Which  never  more  my  heart  must  glad, 
How  aches  my  heart,  how  burns  my  head ; 

But  'tis  not  mad  ;  no,  'tis  not  mad. 
15 


170 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Hast  thou,  my  child,  forgot,  ere  this, 

A  mother's  face,  a  mother's  tongue? 
She'll  ne'er  forget  your  parting  kiss, 

Nor  round  her  neck  how  fast  you  clung ; 
Nor  how  with  me  you  sued  to  stay ; 

Nor  how  that  suit  your  sire  forbade ; 
Nor  how — I'll  drive  such  thoughts  away  ; 

They'll  make  me  mad ;  they'll  make  me  mad. 

His  rosy  lips,  how  sweet  they  smiled ! 

His  mild  blue  eyes,  how  bright  they  shone ! 
None  ever  bore  a  lovelier  child: 

And  art  thou  now  for  ever  gone  1 
And  must  I  never  see  thee  more. 

My  pretty,  pretty,  pretty  lad  ? 
I  will  be  free  !  unbar  the  door ! 

I  am  not  mad ;  I  am  not  mad. 

Oh !  hark !  what  mean  those  yells  and  cries  ? 

His  chain  some  furious  madman  breaks  ,* 
He  comes, — I  see  his  glaring  eyes  ; 

Now,  now  my  dungeon  grate  he  shakes. 
Help  !  help  ! — He's  gone  ! — Oh !  fearful  wo, 

Such  screams  to  hear,  such  sights  to  see ! 
My  brain,  my  brain, — I  know,  I  know, 

I  am  not  mad,  but  soon  shall  be. 

Yes,  soon ; — for,  lo  you  ! — while  I  speak — 

Mark  how  yon  Demon's  eye-balls  glare ! 
He  sees  me ;  now,  with  dreadful  shriek, 

He  whirls  a  serpent  high  in  air. 
Horror  ! — the  reptile  strikes  his  tooth 

Deep  in  my  heart,  so  crushed  and  sad ; 
Ay,  laugh,  ye  fiends ; — I  feel  the  truth ; 

Your  task  is  done !— J'm  mad!  Fm  mad! 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  i7j 


LESSON   LXXII. 

On  the  relative  Value  of  Good  Sense  and  Beauty  in  the 
Female  Sex. — Literary  Gazette. 

Notwithstanding  the  lessons  of  moralists,  and  the  dec- 
lamations of  philosophers,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  all  man- 
kind have  a  natural  love,  and  even  respect,  for  external 
beauty.  In  vain  do  they  represent  it  as  a  thing  of  no  value 
in  itself,  as  a  frail  and  perishable  flower ;  in  vain  do  they  ex- 
haust all  the  depths  of  argument,  all  the  stories  of  fancy,  to 
prove  the  worthlessness  of  this  amiable  gift  of  nature.  How- 
ever persuasive  their  reasonings  may  appear,  and  however 
we  may,  for  a  time,  fancy  ourselves  convinced  by  them,  we 
have  in  our  breasts  a  certain  instinct,  which  never  fails  to 
tell  us,  that  all  is  not  satisfactory  ;  and  though  we  may  not  be 
able  to  prove  that  they  are  wrong,  we  feel  a  conviction  that 
it  is  impossible  they  should  be  right. 

They  are  certainly  right  in  blaming  those,  who  are  ren- 
dered vain  by  the  possession  of  beauty,  since  vanity  is,  at  all 
times,  a  fault :  but  there  is  a  great  difference  between  being 
vain  of  a  thing,  and  being  happy  that  we  have  it ;  and  that 
beauty,  however  little  merit  a  woman  can  claim  to  herself  for 
it,  is  really  a  quality  which  she  may  reasonably  rejoice  to  pos- 
sess, demands,  I  think,  no  very  labored  proof  Every  one  nat- 
urally wishes  to  please.  To  this  end  we  know  how  important 
it  is,  that  the  first  impression  we  produce  should  be  favorable. 

Now,  this  first  impression  is  commonly  produced  through  the 
medium  of  the  eye ;  and  this  is  frequently  so  powerful  as  to 
resist,  for  a  long  time,  the  opposing  evidence  of  subsequent 
observation.  Let  a  man  of  even  the  soundest  judgment  be 
presented  to  two  women,  equally  strangers  to  him,  but  the  one 
extremely  handsome,  the  other  without  any  remarkable  ad- 
vantages of  person,  and  he  will,  without  deliberation,  attach 
himself  first  to  the  former.  All  men  seem  in  this  to  be 
actuated  by  the  same  principle  as  Socrates,  who  used  to  say, 
that  when  he  saw  a  beautiful  person,  he  always  expected  to 
see  it  animated  by  a  beautiful  soul. 

The  ladies,  however,  often  fall  into  the  fatal  error  of  im- 


172  YOUJNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

agining  that  a  fine  person  is,  in  our  eyes,  superior  to  every 
other  accomplishment ;  and  those,  who  are  so  happy  as  to  be  • 
endowed  with  it,  rely,  with  vain  confidence,  on  its  irresistible 
power  to  retain  hearts  as  well  as  to  subdue  them.  Hence 
the  lavish  care  bestowed  on  the  improvement  of  exterior  and 
perishable  charms,  and  the  neglect  of  solid  and  durable 
excellence ;  hence  the  long  list  of  arts  that  administer  to 
vanity  and  folly,  the  countless  train  of  glittering  accomplish- 
ments, and  the  scanty  catalogue  of  truly  valuable  acquire- 
ments, which  compose,  for  the  most  part,  the  modern  system 
of  fashionable  female  education.  Yet  so  far  is  beauty  from 
being,  in  our  eyes,  an  excuse  for  the  want  of  a  cultivated 
mind,  that  the  women  who  are  blessed  with  it,  have,  in  real- 
ity, a  much  harder  task  to  perform,  than  those  of  their  sex 
who  are  not  so  distinguished.  Even  our  self-love  here  takes 
part  against  them ;  we  feel  ashamed  of  having  suffered  our- 
selves to  be  caught  like  children,  by  mere  outside,  and 
perhaps  even  fall  into  the  contrary  extreme. 

Could  "  the  statue  that  enchants  the  world," — the  Venus 
de  Medicis, — at  the  prayer  of  some  new  Pygmalion,  become 
suddenly  animated,  how  disappointed  would  he  be,  if  she 
were  not  endowed  with  a  soul  answerable  to  the  inimitable 
perfection  of  her  heavenly  form?  Thus  it  is  with  a  fine 
woman,  whose  only  accomplishment  is  external  excellence. 
She  may  dazzle  for  a  time ;  but  when  a  man  has  once 
thought,  "  What  a  pity  that  such  a  masterpiece  should  be  but 
a  walking  statue !"  her  empire  is  at  an  end. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  a  woman,  the  plainness  of  whose 
features  prevented  our  noticing  her  at  first,  is  found,  upon 
nearer  acquaintance,  to  be  possessed  of  the  more  solid  and  ' 
valuable  perfections  of  the  mind,  the  pleasure  we  feel  in  being 
so  agreeably  undeceived,  makes  her  appear  to  still  greater 
advantage :  and  as  the  mind  of  man,  when  lefl  to  itself,  is 
naturally  an  enemy  to  all  injustice,  we,  even  unknown  to 
ourselves,  strive  to  repair  the  wrong  we  have  involuntarily 
done  her,  by  a  double  portion  of  attention  and  regard. 

If  these  observations  be  founded  in  truth,  it  will  appear  that, 
though  a  woman  with  a  cultivated  mind  may  justly  hope  to 
please,  without  even  any  superior  advantages  of  person,  the 
loveliest  creature  that  ever  came  from  the  hand  of  her  Crea- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I73 

tor  can  hope  only  for  a  transitory  empire,  unless  she  unite 
with  her  beauty  the  more  durable  charm  of  intellectual  ex- 
cellence. 

The  favored  child  of  nature,  who  combines  in  herself  these 
united  perfections,  may  be  justly  considered  as  the  master- 
piece of  the  creation  ;  as  the  most  perfect  image  of  the  Divin- 
ity here  below,  Man,  the  proud  lord  of  the  creation,  bows 
willingly  his  haughty  neck  beneath  her  gentle  rule.  Ex- 
alted, tender,  beneficent,  is  the  love  that  she  inspires.  Even 
time  himself  shall  respect  the  all-powerful  magic  of  her 
beauty.  Her  charms  may  fade,  but  they  shall  never  wither ; 
and  memory  still,  in  the  evening  of  life,  hanging  with  fond 
affection  over  the  blanched  rose,  shall  view,  through  the  vale 
of  lapsed  years,  the  tender  bud,  the  downing  promise,  whose 
beauties  once  blushed   before  the   beams   of  the   morning 


LESSON  LXXIII. 

Maternal  Affection. — Mrs.  Hemans. 

Love  !  love  ! — there  are  soft  smiles  and  gentle  words, 
And  there  are  faces,  skilful  to  put  on 
The  look  we  trust  in, — and  'tis  mockery  all ! — 
A  faithless  mist,  a  desert-vapor,  wearing 
The  brightness  of  clear  waters,  thus  to  cheat 
The  thirst  that  semblance  kindled  !     There  is  none, 
In  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 
Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 
A  mother's  heart.     It  is  but  pride,  wherewith 
To  his  fair  son  the  father's  eye  doth  turn, 
Watching  his  growth.     Ay,  on  the  boy  he  looks, 
The  bright,  glad  creature  springing  in  his  path, 
But  as  the  heir  of  his  great  name,  the  young 
And  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength,  ere  long, 
Shall  bear  his  trophies  well.     And  this  is  love ! 
This  is  man's  love  '.—What  marvel  ?  You  ne'er  made 
Your  breast  the  pillow  of  his  infancy, 
15* 


174  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

While  to  the  fulness  of  your  heart's  glad  heavings 

His  fair  cheek  rose  and  fell,  and  his  bright  hair 

Waved  softly  to  your  breath !      You  ne'er  kept  watch 

Beside  him,  till  the  last  pale  star  had  set, 

And  morn,  all  dazzling,  as  in  triumph,  broke 

On  your  dim,  weary  eye  ;  not  yours  the  face 

Which,  early  faded  through  fond  care  for  him, 

Hung  o'er  his  sleep,  and,  duly  as  heaven's  light, 

Was  there  to  greet  his  wakening !      You  ne'er  smoothed 

His  couch,  ne'er  sung  him  to  his  rosy  rest. 

Caught  his  least  whisper,  when  his  voice  from  yours 

Had  learned  soft  utterance  5  pressed  your  lip  to  his, 

When  fever  parched  it ;  hushed  his  wayward  cries, 

With  patient,  vigilant,  never-wearied  love  ! 

No !  these  are  woman's  tasks ! — In  these  her  youth, 

And  bloom  of  cheek,  and  buoyancy  of  heart. 

Steal  from  her  all  unmarked. 


LESSON   LXXIV. 

Napoleon  at  Rest. — Pierpont. 

His  falchion  flashed  along  the  Nile ; 

His  hosts  he  led  through  Alpine  snows ; 
O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  blazed  the  while, 

His  eagle  flag  unrolled, — and  froze. 

Here  sleeps  he  now,  alone  !  Not  one. 
Of  all  the  kings,  whose  crowns  he  gave, 

Bends  o'er  his  dust ; — ^nor  wife  nor  son 
Has  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Behind  this  sea-girt  rock,  the  star, 

That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown. 

Has  sunk  ,•  and  nations  from  afar 
Gazed  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  175 

High  is  his  couch ; — the  ocean  flood, 

Far,  far  below,  by  storms  is  curled ; 
As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood^ 

A  stormy  and  unstable  world. 

Alone  he  sleeps !     The  mountain  cloud, 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 

Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 

That  wraps  the  conqueror's  clay  in  death. 

Pause  here  !     The  far  off  world,  at  last, 

Breathes  free ;  the  hand  that  shook  its  thrones, 

And  to  the  earth  its  mitres  cast. 

Lies  powerless  now  beneath  these  stones. 

Hark !  comes  there,  from  the  pyramids. 

And  from  Siberian  wastes  of  snow, 
And  Europe's  hills,  a  voice  that  bids 

The  world  he  awed  to  mourn  him  ? — No : 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge 

That's  heard  here,  is  the  sea-bird's  cry, — 
The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, — 

The  cloud's  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 


LESSON   LXXV. 
The  Warrior. — Anonymous. 

A  GALLANT  form  is  passing  by  ; 

The  plume  bends  o'er  his  lordly  brow  ; 
A  thousand  tongues  have  raised  on  high 

His  song  of  triumph  now  : 
Young  knees  are  bending  round  his  way, 
And  age  makes  bare  his  locks  of  gray. 


176  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

-Fair  forms  have  lent  their  gladdest  smile, 
White  hands  have  M^aved  the  conqueror  on, 

And  flowers  have  decked  his  path  the  while, 
By  gentle  fingers  strown. 

Soft  tones  have  cheered  him,  and  the  brow 

Of  beauty  beams  uncovered  now. 

The  bard  has  waked  the  song  for  him, 
And  poured  his  boldest  numbers  forth ; 

The  wine-cup,  sparkling  to  the  brim. 
Adds  phrensy  to  the  mirth ; 
'  And  every  tongue,  and  every  eye, 

Does  homage  to  the  passer  by. 

The  gallant  steed  treads  proudly  on  ; 

His  foot  falls  firmly  now,  as  when, 
In  strife,  that  iron  heel  went  down. 

Upon  the  hearts  of  men. 
And,  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  strife, 
Trod  out  the  last  dim  spark  of  life. 

Dream  they  of  these,  the  glad  and  gay, 

That  bend  around  the  conqueror's  path  ? — 

The  horrors  of  the  conflict  day. 
The  gloomy  field  of  death. 

The  ghastly  stain,  the  severed  head, 

The  raven  stooping  o'er  the  dead ! 

Dark  thoughts,  and  fearful !  yet  they  bring 
No  terrors  to  the  triumph  hour. 

Nor  stay  the  reckless  worshipping 
Of  blended  crime  and  power. 

The  fair  of  form,  the  mild  of  mood. 

Do  honor  to  the  man  of  blood. 

Men,  Christians,  pause !     The  air  ye  breathe 
Is  poisoned  by  your  idol  now ; 

And  will  you  turn  to  him,  and  wreath 
Your  chaplets  round  his  brow  ? 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I77 

Nay,  call  his  darkest  deeds  sublime, 
And' smile  assent  to  giant  crime? 

Forbid  it,  Heaven  ! — A  voice  hath  gone 

In  mildness  and  in  meekness  forth, 
Hushing,  before  its  silvery  tone, 

The  stormy  things  of  earth. 
And  vv^hispering  sweetly  through  the  gloom 
An  earnest  of  the  peace  to  come. 


LESSON  LXXVI. 

TVar. — PoRTEus. 

'TwAS  man  himself 
Brought  Death  into  the  world ;  and  man  himself 
Gave  keenness  to  his  darts,  quickened  his  pace. 
And  multiplied  destruction  on  mankind. 
First  Envy,  eldest  born  of  Hell,  imbrued 
Her  hands  in  blood,  and  taught  the  sons  of  men 
To  make  a  death,  which  nature  never  made, 
And  God  abhorred  ;  with  violence  rude  to  break 
The  thread  of  life,  ere  half  its  length  was  run, 
And  rob  a  wretched  brother  of  his  being. 
With  joy  Ambition  saw,  and  soon  improved 
The  execrable  deed.     'Twas  not  enough, 
By  subtle  fraud,  to  snatch  a  single  life — 
Puny  impiety !  whole  kingdoms  fell 
To  sate  the  lust  of  power ;  more  horrid  still, 
The  foulest  stain  and  scandal  of  our  nature 
Became  its  boast. — One  iHurder  made  a  villain, 
Millions  a  hero. — Princes  were  privileged 
To  kill,  and  numbers  sanctified  the  crime. 

Ah !  why  will  kings  forget  that  they  are  men  ? 
And  men  that  they  are  brethren  ?     Why  delight 
In  human  sacrifice  ?     Why  burst  the  ties 
Of  nature,  that  should  knit  their  souls  together 
In  one  soft  bond  of  amity  and  love  ? 
Yet  still,  they  breathe  destruction,  still  go  on 


178  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Inhumanly  ingenious  to  find  out 

New  pains  for  life,  new  terrors  for  the  grave", 

Artificers  of  death !     Still  monarchs  dream 

Of  universal  empire  growing  up 

From  universal  ruin.     Blast  the  design, 

Great  God  of  hosts,  nor  let  thy  creatures  fall 

Unpitied  victims  at  Ambition's  shrine ! 


LESSON   LXXVII. 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim. — Southey. 

It  was  a  summer  evening, — 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
And  he,  before  his  cottage  door, 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sported,  on  the  green, 
His  little  grand-child,  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round. 

Which  he,  beside  the  rivulet. 
In  playing  there,  had  found : 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden,  for 

There's  many  here  about ; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough. 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  the  great  victory." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  179 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about — " 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries, 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes — 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  killed  each  other  for." 

"  It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 

"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  killed  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out : 
But  every  body  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then. 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  : 
They  burned  his  dwelling  to  the  ground,- 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide. 
And  many  a  hapless  mother  then. 

And  many  an  infant,  died ; 
But  things  like  these,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight. 

After  the  field  was  won ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"  Great  praise  the  duke  of  Marlb'ro*  won. 

And  our  good  prince  Eugene." 
"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing !" 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 


180  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl/'  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"  And  every  body  praised  the  duke 
Who  such  a  fight  did  vt^in." 
'    "  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  V 
Q,uoth  little  Peterkin. 

"Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he  ; 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory  " 


LESSON    LXXVIII. 

TTie  Study  of  History ;  or  a  Solid  and  a  Superficial  Edit- 
cation  contrasted. — From  Ruhnken. 

Teacher.  I  hear  that  you  have  made  great  progress  in 
history,  and  that  you  have  at  home  a  very  able  instructress 
in  it. 

Pupil.  Yes,  that  is  the  case ;  our  governess  knows  all 
history ;  and  I  have  profited  much  from  her  instruction. 

T.     But  what  have  you  learned  ?     Tell  me. 

P.     All  history. 

T.     But  what  is  all  history  7 

P.  {Hesitating.)  All  history  1  Why  it  is — it  is — what  i^ 
in  books. 

T.  Well,  I  have  here  many  books  on  history,  as  Herodo- 
tus, Livy,  Tacitus  and  others;  I  suppose  you  know  those 
authors. 

P.     No,  I  do  not;  but  I  know  the  facts  related  in  history. 

T.  I  dare  say  you  do ;  I  see,  however,  that,  out  of  your 
knowledge  of  all  history,  we  must  deduct  a  knowledge  of  the 
authors  who  have  written  it.  But  perhaps  that  governess 
of  yours  has  informed  you  who  Homer,  Hesiod,  Plato  and 
the  other  poets  and  philosophers  were  1 

P.  I  don't  think  she  has ;  for,  if  she  had,  I  should  have 
remembered  it. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  IQl 

T.  Well,  we  must  then  make  one  farther  deduction  from 
your  knowledge  of  all  history ;  and  that  is,  the  history  of  the 
poets  and  philosophers. 

P.  Why,  I  said  just  now  that  I  did  not  learn  those 
things ;  I  learned  matters  of  fact  and  events. 

T.  But  those  things,  as  you  call  them,  were  men  :  howev- 
er, I  now  understand  you  ;  the  knowledge  you  acquired  was 
a  knowledge  of  things,  but  not  of  men ;  as,  for  instance,  you 
learned  that  the  city  of  Rome  was  built,  but  you  did  not  learn 
any  thing  of  the  men  that  built  it. 

P.  True,  true.  (^5  if  repeating  hy  rote.)  Rome  was 
built  by  Romulus  and  Remus,  twin  brothers,  the  sons  of 
Rhea  Sylvia  and  Mars;  they  were  exposed,  while  infants,  by 
king  Amulius,  and  afterwards  a  shepherd  brought  them  up 
and  educated  them — 

T.  Enough,  enough,  my  good  little  friend;  you  have 
shown  me  now  what  you  understand  by  the  history  of  men 
and  things.  But,  pray,  tell  me  what  other  men  and  things 
you  were  instructed  in ;  for  instance,  tell  me  who  and  what 
Sylla  was. 

P.     He  was  a  tyrant  of  Rome. 

T.     Was  the  term  tyrant  the  name  of  an  officer  ? 

P.  Indeed,  I  do  not  know ;  but  Sylla  is  certainly  called, 
in  history,  a  tyrant. 

T.  But  did  you  not  learn  that  he  was  dictator  ?  and  what 
the  authority  and  duties  of  that  officer  were  ?  and  the  au- 
thority of  the  consuls,  tribunes  of  the  people,  and  other 
magistrates  among  the  Romans  1 

P.  No,  I  did  not ;  for  those  things  are  hard,  and  are 
not  so  entertaining  as  great  exploits,  and  would  have  taken 
up  too  much  time. 

T.  As  to  that,  you  will  perhaps  be  better  able  to  judge 
hereafter.  Well,  then,  from  your  knowledge  of  all  history, 
we  must  strike  off  all  knowledge  of  the  offices  of  the  Ro- 
man magistrates. 

P.  Ah !  but  we  took  more  pleasure  in  reading  about 
wars  and  exploits. 

J'.  Well,  did  you  ever  hear  of  Carthage  and  the  wars 
carried  on  against  her  ? 

P.     Oh,  yes ;  there  were  three  Carthaginian  wars. 
16 


152  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLAt^S  BOOK. 

T.     Tell  me,  then,  which  party  was  victorious. 

P.     The  Romans. 

T.     But  were  they  victorious  at  the  beginning  1 

P.  Oh,  no  ;  [as  if  repeating  hy  rotel  they  were  beaten, 
in  four  battles,  by  Hannibal ;  at  Ticinum,  Trebia,  the  Thras- 
ymene  lake,  and  Cannae. 

T.  Did  your  governess  tell  you  the  causes  of  these  de- 
feats of  the  Romans  1 

P.  No,  she  did  not  tell  us  the  causes,  but  the  matters  of 
fact. 

T.  Perhaps  you  understand  yourself  the  causes  why  the 
Romans  finally  retrieved  their  affairs  ? 

P.     To  be  sure  I  do ;  the  cause  was  their  bravery 

T.  But  were  they  not  brave  also  at  the  beginning  of 
those  wars  ? 

P.     Certainly  they  were. 

T.  Then  their  bravery  was  the  cause  of  their  being  con- 
quered and  being  conquerors  1 

p.  \Yhy — why — I  don't  know  as  to  that ;  but  I  know  I 
never  was  asked  such  hard  questions  before. 

T.  Well,  well ;  I  will  ask  you  something  easier.  Is  it  to 
be  supposed  that  the  Romans  would  have  come  off  victorious 
in  that  war,  if  the  powerfiil  sovereigns  of  that  age  had  united 
their  forces  with  the  Carthaginians  ? 

P.  ( With  an  air  of  surprise.)  What  sovereigns  do  you 
mean? 

T.  Why,  do  you  not  know,  that  in  that  age  there  were 
in  Macedonia,  Asia,  Syria  and  Egypt,  all  those  powerful 
kings  who  were  the  successors  of  Alexander  the  Great  1 

P.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  that;  but  we  used  to  take  up  their 
history  in  another  chapter.  I  never  thought  of  their  living 
at  the  time  of  the  second  Punic  war. 

T.  Do  you  not  perceive,  then,  that  their  mutual  rivalry 
was  the  cause  why  they  did  not  unite  their  forces  with  the 
Carthaginians  to  oppose  the  Romans,  in  consequence  of 
which,  those  same  kings  were  afterwards  conquered,  one  by 
one,  by  the  Romans  1 

P.  I  perceive  it  now,  since  you  have  told  me  of  it ;  and 
I  derive  much  gratification  from  your  remark. 

T.     It  is  indeed  true,  that  the  perception  of  the  causes  of 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  183 

things  is  not  only  gratifying,  but  useful.  However,  we  must 
still  go  on  to  make  farther  deductions  from  your  stock  of  all 
history ;    we  must  deduct  the  knowledge  of  causes. 

P.  I  cannot  deny  that,  to  be  sure ;  but  I  am  positive 
that,  with  the  exceptions  you  have  now  made,  we  learned 
every  thing  else  in  history. 

T.  Well,  tell  me  about  some  of  the  other  things  that 
you  learned ;  tell  me  what  is  the  beginning  of  history. 

P.     The  creation  of  the  world. 

T.  But  I  meant  to  ask  you  about  men,  and  the  affairs  of 
men. 

P.  {As  if  repeating  by  rote.)  The  first  human  beings 
were  Adam  and  Eve,  whom  God  created  on  the  sixth  day, 
after  his  own  image,  and  placed  in  paradise,  from  which  they 
were  afterwards  expelled,  and — 

T.  Don't  go  any  farther,  I  beg  of  you ;  I  see  you  have 
got  some  little  book  well  by  heart :  but  telj  ,me  now,  gener- 
ally, about  what  men  and  things,  subsequent  to  those,  were 
you  instructed  by  your  governess  ? 

P.  About  the  posterity  of  Adam,  the  patriarchs  before 
and  after  the  flood,  and  all  about  the  Jewish  nation,  to  the 
time  of  their  overthrow. 

T.  But  what  makes  you  think  that  those  things  you 
learned  are  true  ? 

P.  Because  they  are  delivered  to  us  by  divine  inspiration 
in  the  Holy  Scriptures. 

T.  But  did  you  find  the  Roman  history,  and  other  things 
that  you  have  learned,  all  in  the  Holy  Scriptures? 

P.     Certainly  not. 

T.     But  yet  you  believe  them  1 

P.  Believe  them  !  why  not  ?  They  are  related  in  other 
books  that  are  worthy  of  credit. 

T.     Pray,  what  books  are  those  ? 

P.  Our  governess  had  two ;  one,  a  small  book,  that  we 
learned  to  recite ;  the  other,  a  large  work,  in  several  volumes, 
from  which  she  sometimes  read  to  us. 

T.  But  were  the  authors  of  those  books  witnesses  of  the 
events  which  they  relate  1 

P.  Oh,  no ;  they  lived  either  in  our  day,  or  within  the 
memory  of  our  fathers. 


Ig4  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

T.  Where  did  they  get  their  knowledge  of  the  things 
mentioned  in  their  books  1 

P.     From  other  books  that  are  worthy  of  credit. 

T.     Do  you  know  those  other  books  ? 

P.     No,  I  do  not. 

T.  How  can  you  venture,  then,  to  assert  that  those  books 
are  worthy  of  credit,  when  you  do  not  know  them  1 

P.     I  believe  what  our  governess  tells  us. 

T.     Pray  how  many  years  old  are  you  ? 

P.     Fifteen. 

T.  Upon  my  word !  You  are  now  almost  grown  up,  and 
your  governess  still  treats  you  like  a  little  child  \ 

P.     How  so  ? 

T.  Why,  because  she  teaches  you  history  jutet  as  we  tell 
stories  to  little  children.  But  do  you  think  the  history  she 
teaches  you  is  true  ?  or  is  it  a  matter  of  indifference  to  you, 
whether  you  are  instructed  in  the  truth  or  in  fables  ? 

P.  Indeed,  it  is  far  from  being  indifferent  to  me  ;  and  I 
am  sure  that  every  thing  she  teaches  us  is  true. 

T.  Well,  if  you  know  that  to  be  the  case,  then  you  must 
know  the  manner  in  which  you  distinguish  truth  from  false- 
hood. 

P.  No,  I  cannot  say  that;  but  I  believe  what  the  govern- 
ess tells  us,  because  she  is  a  woman  of  truth. 

T.  But  see  how  inconsistent  you  are  !  One  while  you  say 
you  Icnow  these  things ;  then  you  say  you  do  not  know  ;  and 
then,  again,  you  say  you  believe  in  your  governess  ! 

P.  I  cannot  answer  you  so  easily  as  I  can  her  ;  for  she, 
somehow  or  other,  asks  me  in  an  easier  way. 

T.  Well,  I  will  ask  you  something  easier.  What  is  histo- 
ry designed  to  tell  us,  truth  or  falsehood  ? 

P.     The  truth,  certainly. 

T.  Can  any  body,  then,  either  teach  or  be  taught  history 
properly,  without  knowing  how  to  distinguish  truth  from 
falsehood  ? 

P.     Why — I  don't  know — 

T.  You  don't  know  !  Do  you  know  this,  then,  whether 
history  is  studied  for  the  sake  of  any  utility  to  be  derived 
from  it? 

P.    I  suppose  great  utility  is  to  be  derived  from  it. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  185 

T.     What  are  the  advantages  of  it  ? 

P.     Indeed,  I  do  not  know. 

T.  But  did  not  your  governess  tell  you  that  much  of  our 
knowledge  is  founded  upon  historical  facts  ?"  and  that  we  are 
enabled  by  history  to  understand  better  and  more  readily 
other  parts  of  human  knowledge  1  and  that  it  is  particularly 
useful  in  furnishing  examples  for  the  government  of  life,  both 
in  private  and  in  public? 

P.  No,  she  did  not  tell  us  that ;  but  I  think  what  you 
tell  me  seems  reasonable. 

T.  Well,  then,  answer  me  one  question  more : — if  any 
man  should  go  on  heaping  together  money  of  every  sort,  and 
should  pay  no  attention  to  see  if  his  pieces  of  coin  were 
good  or  bad,  and  should  thus  become  possessed  of  much 
counterfeit  money,  would  he  not  be  under  a  very  great  dis- 
advantage, when  it  should  become  necessary  to  make  use  of 
his  money,  and  he  should  find  it  to  be  counterfeit  1 

P.     He  certainly  would. 

T.  Again ;  we  have  just  said  that  history  is  the  founda- 
tion of  knowledge :  now,  do  you  think  it  is  of  no  consequence 
to  a  building,  whether  its  foundations  are  solid  and  firn^,  or 
weak  and  slender?  / 

P.     Most  certainly,  it  is  of  great  consequence. 

T.  You  see,  by  this  time,  my  little  friend,  what  sort  of  a 
foundation  you  have  in  the  history  that  you  have  learned. 
You  imagined  that  you  understood  all  history  ;  you  now  see 
how  many  deductions  must  be  made  from  your  knowledge. 
You  have  heard  nothing  of  the  historians  themselves ;  nothing 
of  the  philosophers  and  poets ;  nothing  of  magistrates  and 
other  officers  ;  and,  as  I  perceive,  nothing  of  various  other 
things  relating  to  peace  and  war,  times  and  places ;  nothing 
of  causes  ;  and,  in  short,  nothing  respecting  the  manner  of 
discerning  truth  from  falsehood :  now,  when  all  these  things 
are  taken  away  from  your  stock  of  all  history^  what  is  there 
remaining  ? 

P.  I  now  begin  to  understand,  and  I  am  sorry  for  the 
labor  I  have  spent  in  my  history — 

T.     No,  take  courage ;  for  now  you  may  promise  yourself 
that  you  will  know  something,  because  you  are  sensible  how 
much  there  is  that  you  do  not  know  ;  and  that  you  are  in 
16* 


X86  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

need  of  something  more  substantial  and  efficacious,  which 
shall  qualify  you  for  a  more  perfect  knowledge  of  things  and 
causes  ;  enable  you  to  judge  of  truth  and  falsehood  ;  and,  in 
short,  make  you  acquainted  with  the  liistory  of  history  it- 
self,* that  is,  that  you  may  know  what  writers  have  treated 
of  the  subjects  of  history,  and  of  what  credit  and  authority 
those  writers  are. 

P.  Your  remarks  are  very  just ;  and  I  beg  of  you  to  fur- 
nish me  with  some  little  book,  from  which  I  can  learn  all 
this  in  a  short  time. 

T.  My  young  friend,  I  see  you  think  that  all  these  things 
can  be  learned  from  a  little  book,  like  that  which  you  used  to 
recite  to  your  governess.  Now,  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
you  ought  to  be  sorry  for  your  own  labor,  or  that  of  your 
governess ;  because  what  you  have  thus  acquired  and  fixed 
in  your  memory,  though  a  puerile  exercise,  will  not  be  with- 
out use  ;  but  henceforward  you  must  exercise  your  judgment, 
and  pursue  a  liberal  and  exact  course  of  study.  This,  how- 
ever, is  not  to  be  acquired  at  once,  or  by  the  use  of  any 
little  book,  but  by  understanding  the  various  books  relating 
to  the  subject,  and  by  diligently  attending  on  the  instruction 
of  thpse,  who  teach  history  according  to  these  principles. 


LESSON  LXXIX. 

Conversation. — Extract  from  Cowper. 

Though  Nature  weigh  our  talents,  and  dispense 
To  every  man  his  modicum  of  sense, 
And  conversation,  in  its  better  part. 
May  be  esteemed  a  gift,  and  not  an  art, 
Yet  much  depends,  as  in  the  tiller's  toil, 
On  culture  and  the  sowing  of  the  soil. 
Words  learned  by  rote  a  parrot  may  rehearse, 
But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse ; 
Not  more  distinct  from  harmony  divine, 
The  constant  creaking  of  a  country  sign. 

Ye  powers,  who  rule  the  tongue,— if  such  there  are,- 
And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  187 

Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate — 

A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 

Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite ; 

A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right : 

I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 

Fix  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare,  « 

And,  when  I  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out, 

Reply  discreetly — "  To  be  sure — no  doubt !" 

Duhiiis  is  such  a  scrupulous,  good  man — 
Yes — you  may  catch  him  tripping,  if  you  can. 
He  would  not,  with  a  peremptory  tone. 
Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own  ; 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow. 
He  humbly  hopes — presumes — it  may  be  so. 
His  evidence,  if  he  were  called  by  law 
To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw. 
For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief, 
Would  hang  an  honest  man,  and  save  a  thief 
Through  constant  dread  of  giving  truth  offence, 
He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense ; 
Knows  what  he  knows  as  if  he  knew  it  not ; 
What  he  remembers  seems  to  have  forgot ; 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 
Centring,  at  last,  in  having  none  at  all. 

A  story,  in  which  native  humor  reigns. 
Is  often  useful,  always  entertains : 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side. 
May  furnish  illustration,  well  applied ; 
But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 
Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 
'Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  earth, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth. 
And  echo  conversations,  dull  and  dry. 
Embellished  with,  "  He  said,"  and  "  So  said  I." 
At  every  interview  their  route  the  same. 
The  repetition  makes  attention  lame  : 
We  bustle  up,  with  unsuccessful  speed. 
And,  in  the  saddest  part,  cry,  "  Droll  indeed  !" 

I  pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn  and  undeserved  disdain, 


]8g  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  bear  the  marks,  upon  a  blushing  face, 

Of  laeedless  shame,  and  self-imposed  disgrace. 

Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute, 

The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 

True  modesty  is  a  discerning  grace, 

And  only  blushes  in  the  proper  place ; 

But  counterfeit  is  blind,  and  skulks,  through  fear. 

Where  'tis  a  shame  to  be  ashamed  t'  appear ; 

Humility  the  parent  of  the  first, 

The  last  by  vanity  produced  and  nursed. 

The  circle  formed,  we  sit  in  silent  state. 
Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial-plate ; 
"  Yes,  ma'am,"  and  "  No,  ma'am,"  uttered  softly,  show, 
Ev'ry  five  minutes,  how  the  minutes  go ; 
Each  individual,  suffering  a  constraint 
Poetry  may,  but  colors  cannot  paint, 
As  if  in  close  committee  on  the  sky, 
Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wet  or  dry  ! 
And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy  source 
Of  wise  reflection  and  well-timed  discourse! 
We  next  inquire,  but  softly,  and  by  stealth. 
Like  conservators  of  the  public  health. 
Of  epidemic  throats,  if  such  there  are. 
And  coughs,  and  rheums,  and  phthisics,  and  catarrh 


LESSON  LXXX. 

On  Discretion. — Addison. 

I  HAVE  often  thought,  if  the  minds  of  men  were  laid  open, 
we  should  see  but  little  difference  between  that  of  the  wise 
man  and  that  of  the  fool.  There  are  infinite  reveries,  num- 
berless extravagances,  and  a  perpetual  train  of  vanities, 
which  pass  through  both.  The  great  difference  is,  that  the 
first  knows  how  to  pick  and  cull  his  thoughts  for  conversation, 
by  suppressing  some  and  communicating  others;  whereas 
the  other  lets  them  all  indifferently  fly  out  in  words.  This 
sort  of  discretion,  however,  has  no  place  in  private  conversa- 
tion  between   intimate   friends.      On    such  occasions,  the 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK,  189 

wisest  men  very  often  talk  like  the  weakest ;  for,  indeed,  the 
talking  with  a  friend  is  nothing  else  but  thinking  aloud/ 

Tully  has,  therefore,  very  justly  exposed  a  precept  deliver- 
ed by  some  ancient  writers,  that  a  man  should  live  with  his 
enemy  in  such  a  manner,  as  might  leave  him  room  to  become 
his  friend ;  and  with  his  friend  in  such  a  manner,  that  if  he 
became  his  enemy,  it  should  not  be  in  his  power  to* hurt  him. 
The  first  part  of  this  rule,  which  regards  our  behavior 
towards  an  enemy,  is,  indeed,  very  reasonable,  as  well  as 
very  prudential ;  but  the  latter  part  of  it,  which  regards  our 
behavior  towards  a  friend,  savors  more  of  cunning  than  of 
discretion,  and  would  cut  a  man  off  from  the  greatest 
pleasures  of  life,  which  are  the  freedoms  of  conversation 
with  a  bosom  friend.  Besides  that,  when  a  friend  is  turned 
into  an  enemy,  and,  as  the  son  of  Sirach  calls  him,  "  a  be- 
wrayer  of  secrets,"  the  world  is  just  enough  to  accuse  the 
perfidiousness  of  the  friend,  rather  than  the  indiscretion  of 
the  person  who  confided  in  him. 

Discretion  does  not  only  show  itself  in  words,  but  in  all 
the  circumstances  of  action,  and  is  like  an  under-agent  of 
Providence,  to  guide  and  direct  us  in  the  ordinary  concerns 
of  life. 

There  are  many  more  shining  qualities  in  the  mind  of 
man,  but  there  are  none  more  useful  than  discretion  ;  it  is  this, 
indeed,  which  gives  a  value  to  all  the  rest,  which  sets  them 
at  work  in  their  proper  times  and  places,  and  turns  them  to 
the  advantage  of  the  person  who  is  possessed  of  them 
Without  it,  learning  is  pedantry,  and  wit,  impertinence ;  vir- 
tue itself  looks  like  weakness ;  the  best  parts  only  qualify  a 
man  to  be  more  sprightly  in  errors,  and  active  to  his  own 
prejudice. 

Nor  does  discretion  only  make  a  man  the  master  of  his 
own  parts,  but  of  other  men's.  The  discreet  man  finds  out 
the  talents  of  those  he  converses  with,  and  knows  how  to 
apply  them  to  proper  uses.  Accordingly,  if  we  look  into 
particular  communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we  may  observe 
that  it  is  the  discreet  man,  not  the  witty,  nor  the  learned,  nor 
the  brave,  who  guides  the  conversation,  and  gives  measures 
to  the  society.  A  man  with  great  talents,  but  void  of  discre- 
tion, is,  like  Polyphemus  in  the  fable,  strong  and  blind ;  endued 


190  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

with  an  irresistible  force,  which,  for  want  of  sight,  is  of  no 
use  to  him 

Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  and  wants  discre- 
tion, he  will  be  of  no  great  consequence  in  the  world ;  but 
if  he  has  this  single  talent  in  perfection,  and  but  a  common 
share  of  others,  he  may  do  what  he  pleases  in  his  particular 
station  of  life.  At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the 
most  useful  talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look  upon  cun- 
ning to  be  the  accomplishment  of  little,  mean,  ungenerous 
minds. 

Discretion  points  out  the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  pursues 
the  most  proper  and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  them. 
Cunning  has  only  private,  selfish  aims,  and  sticks  at  nothing 
which  may  make  them  succeed.  Discretion  has  large  and 
extended  views,  and,  like  a  well-formed  eye,  commands  a 
whole  horizon.  Cunning  is  a  kind  of  short-sightedness,  that 
discovers  the  minutest  objects  which  are  near  at  hand, 
but  is  not  able  to  discern  things  at  a  distance.  Discretion, 
the  more  it  is  discovered,  gives  a  greater  authority  to  the 
person  who  possesses  it.  Cunning,  when  it  is  once  detected, 
loses  its  force,  and  makes  a  man  incapable  of  bringing  about 
even  those  events  which  he  might  have  done,  had  he  passed 
only  for  a  plain  man. 

Discretion  is  the  perfection  of  reason,  and  a  guide  to  us  in 
all  the  duties  of  life  :  cunning  is  a  kind  of  instinct,  that  only 
looks  out  after  our  immediate  interest  and  welfare.  Discretion 
is  only  found  in  men  of  strong  sense  and  good  understand- 
ings :  cunning  is  often  to  be  met  with  in  brutes  themselves, 
and  in  persons  who  are  but  the  fewest  removes  from  them. 
In  short,  cunning  is  only  the  mimic  of  discretion,  and  may 
pass  upon  weak  men,  in  the  same  manner  as  vivacity  is  often 
mistaken  for  wit,  and  gravity  for  wisdom. 

The  cast  of  mind,  which  is  natural  to  a  discreet  man,  makes 
him  look  forward  into  futurity,  and  consider  what  will  be  his 
condition  millions  of  ages  hence,  as  well  as  what  it  is  at 
present.  He  knows  that  the  misery  or  happiness,  which  is 
reserved  for  him  in  another  world,  loses  nothing  of  its  reality 
by  being  placed  at  so  great  a  distance  from  him.  The  objects 
do  not  appear  little  to  him  because  they  are  remote.  He 
considers  that  those  pleasures  and  pains  which  lie  hid  in 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  191 

eternity,  approach  nearer  to  him  every  moment,  and  will  be 
present  with  him  in  their  full  weight  and  measure,  as  much 
as  those  pains  and  pleasures  which  he  feels  at  this  very 
instant. 

For  this  reason,  he  is  careful  to  secure  to  himself  that 
which  is  the  proper  happiness  of  his  nature,  and  the  ultimate 
design  of  his  being.  He  carries  his  thoughts  to  the  end  of 
every  action,  and  considers  the  most  distant  as  well  as  the 
most  immediate  effects  of  it.  He  supersedes  every  little 
prospect  of  gain  and  advantage  which  offers  itself  here,  if 
he  does  not  find  it  consistent  with  his  views  of  an  hereafter. 
In  a  word,  his  hopes  are  full  of  immortality,  his  schemes  are 
large  and  glorious  ;  and  his  conduct  is  suitable  to  one,  who 
knows  his  true  interest,  and  how  to  pursue  it  by  proper 
methods. 


LESSON  LXXXI. 
Advantages  of  a  well-cultivated  Mind. — Bigland. 

It  is  not  without  reason  that  those,  who  have  tasted  the 
pleasures  afforded  by  philosophy  and  literature,  have  lavished 
upon  them  the  greatest  eulogiums.  The  benefits  they  pro- 
duce are  too  many  to  enumerate,  valuable  beyond  estimation, 
and  various  as  the  scenes  of  human  life.  The  man  who  has 
a  knowledge  of  the  works  of  God,  in  the  creation  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  his  providential  government  of  the  immense  system 
of  the  material  and  intellectual  world,  can  never  be  without 
a  copious  fund  of  the  most  agreeable  amusement.  He  can 
never  be  solitary ;  for  in  the  most  lonely  solitude  he  is  not 
destitute  of  company  and  conversation  :  his  own  ideas  are  his 
companions,  and  he  can  always  converse  with  his  own 
mind. 

How  much  soever  a  person  may  be  engaged  in  pleasures, 
or  encumbered  with  business,  he  will  certainly  have  some 
moments  to  spare  for  thought  and  reflection.  No  one,  who 
has  observed  how  heavily  the  vacuities  of  time  hang  upon 
minds  unfurnished  with  images  and  unaccustomed  to  think, 


192  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

will  be  at  a  loss  to  make  a  just  estimate  of  the  advantages  of 
possessing  a  copious  stock  of  ideas,  of  which  the  combinations 
may  take  a  multiplicity  of  forms,  and  may  be  varied  to  in- 
finity. 

Mental  occupations  are  a  pleasing  relief  from  bodily  exer-^ 
tions,  and  that  perpetual  hurry  and  wearisome  attention, 
which,  in  most  of  the  employments  of  life,  must  be  given  to 
objects  which  are  no  otherwise  interesting  than  as  they  are 
necessary.  The  mind,  in  an  hour  of  leisure,  obtaining  a 
short  vacation  from  the  perplexing  cares  of  the  world,  finds, 
in  its  own  contemplations,  a  source  of  amusement,  of  solace 
and  pleasure.  The  tiresome  attention  that  must  be  given  to 
an  infinite  number  of  things,  which,  singly  and  separately 
taken,  are  of  little  moment,  but  collectively  considered,  form 
an  important  aggregate,  requires  to  be  sometimes  relaxed  by 
thoughts  and  reflections  of  a  more  general  and  extensive 
nature,  and  directed  to  objects  of  which  the  examination 
may  open  a  more  spacious  field  of  exercise  to  the  mind,  give 
scope  to  its  exertions,  expand  its  ideas,  present  new  combina- 
tions, and  exhibit  to  the  intellectual  eye,  images  new,  various, 
sublime,  or  beautiful. 

The  time  of  action  will  not  always  continue.  The  young 
ought  ever  to  have  this  consideration  present  to  their  mind, 
that  they  must  grow  old,  unless  prematurely  cut  off  by  sick- 
ness or  accident.  They  ought  to  contemplate  the  certain 
approach  of  age  and  decrepitude^  and  consider  that  all 
temporal  happiness  is  of  uncertain  acquisition,  mixed  with 
a.  variety  of  alloy,  and,  in  whatever  degree  attained,  only 
of  a  short  and  precarious  duration.  Every  day  brings  some 
disappointment,  some  diminution  of  pleasure,  or  some  frus- 
tration of  hope  ;  and  every  moment  brings  us  nearer  to  that 
period,  when  the  present  scenes  shall  recede  from  the  view, 
and  future  prospects  cannot  be  formed. 

This  consideration  displays,  in  a  very  interesting  point  of 
view,  the  beneficial  effects  of  furnishing  the  mind  with  a  stock 
of  ideas  that  may  amuse  it  in  leisure,  accompany  it  in  soli- 
tude, dispel  the  gloom  of  melancholy,  lighten  the  pressure 
of  misfortune,  dissipate  the  vexations  arising  from  baffled 
projects  or  disappointed  hopes,  and  relieve  the  tedium  of 
that  season  of  life,  when  new  acquisitions  can  no  more  be 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  193 

made,  and  the  world  can  no  longer  flatter  and  delude  us  with 
its  illusory  hopes  and  promises. 

When  life  begins,  like  a  distant  landscape,  gradually  to 
disappear,  the  mind  can  receive  no  solace  but  from  its  own 
ideas  and  reflections.  Philosophy  and  literature  wifl  then 
furnish  us  with  an  inexhaustible  source  of  the  most  agreeable 
amusements,  as  religion  will  afford  its  substantial  consolation. 
A  well-spent  youth  is  the  only  sure  foundation  of  a  happy  old 
age :  no  axiom  of  the  mathematics  is  more  true,  or  more 
easily  demonstrated. 

Old  age,  like  death,  comes  unexpectedly  on  the  unthinking 
and  unprepared,  although  its  approach  be  visible,  and  its 
arrival  certain.  Those  who  have,  in  the  earlier  part  of  life, 
neglected  to  furnish  their  minds  with  ideas,  to  fortify  them 
by  contemplation,  and  regulate  them  by  reflection,  seeing  the 
season  of  youth  and  vigor  irrecoverably  past,  its  pleasing 
scenes  annihilated,  and  its  brilliant  prospects  left  far  behind, 
without  the  possibility  of  return,  and  feeling,  at  the  same 
time,  the  irresistible  encroachments  of  age,  with  its  disagree- 
able appendages,  are  surprised  and  disconcerted  by  a  change 
scarcely  expected,  or  for  which,  at  least,  they  had  made  no 
preparations.  A  person  in  this  predicament,  finding  himself 
no  longer  capable  of  taking,  as  formerly,  a  part  in  the  busy 
walks  of  life,  of  enjoying  its  active  pleasures,  and  sharing  its 
arduous  enterprises,  becomes  peevish  and  uneasy,  troublesome 
to  others,  and  burdensome  to  himself  Destitute  of  the  re- 
sources of  philosophy,  and  a  stranger  to  the  amusing  pursuits 
of  literature,  he  is  unacquainted  with  any  agreeable  method 
of  filling  up  the  vacuity  left  in  his  mind  by  his  necessary 
recess  from  the  active  scenes  of  life. 

All  this  is  the  consequence  of  squandering  away  the  days 
of  youth  and  vigor  without  acquiring  the  habit  of  thinking. 
The  period  of  human  life,  short  as  it  is,  is  of  sufficient  length 
for  the  acquisition  of  a  considerable  stock  of  useful  and 
agreeable  knowledge  ;  and  the  circumstances  of  the  world 
afford  a  superabundance  of  subjects  for  contemplation  and 
inquiry.  The  various  phenomena  of  the  moral  as  well  as 
physical  world,  the  investigation  of  sciences,  and  the  infor- 
mation communicated  by  literature,  are  calculated  to  attract 
17 


194  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

attention,  exercise  thought,  excite  reflection,  and  replenish 
the  mind  with  an  infinite  variety  of  ideas. 

The  man  of  letters,  when  compared  with  one  that  is  illit- 
erate, exhibits  nearly  the  same  contrast  as  that  which  exists 
between  a  blind  man  and  one  that  can  see ;  and  if  we  con- 
sider how  much  literature  enlarges  the  mind,  and  how 
much  it  multiplies,  adjusts,  rectifies  and  arranges  the 
ideas,  it  may  well  be  reckoned  equivalent  to  an  additional 
sense.  It  affords  pleasures  which  wealth  cannot  procure,  and 
which  poverty  cannot  entirely  take  away.  A  well  cultivated 
mind  places  its  possessor  beyond  the  reach  of  those  trifling 
vexations  and  disquietudes,  which  continually  harass  and 
perplex  those,  who  have  no  resources  within  themselves ;  and, 
in  some  measure,  elevates  him  above  the  smiles  and  frowns 
of  fortune. 


LESSON  LXXXII. 
The  Vulture  of  the  Alps. — Anonymous. 

I've  been  among  the  mighty  Alps,  and  wandered  through 

their  vales. 
And  heard  the  honest  mountaineers  relate  their  dismal  tales, 
As  round  the  cottage  blazing  hearth,  when  their  daily  work 

was  o'er. 
They  spake  of  those  who  disappeared,  and  ne'er  were  heard 

of  more. 

And  there  I  from  a  shepherd  heard  a  narrative  of  fear, 
A  tale  to  rend  a  mortal  heart,  which  mothers  might  not  hear : 
The  tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes,  his  voice  was  tremulous ; 
But,  wiping  all  those  tears  away,  he  told  his  story  thus  : — 

"  It  is  among  these  barren  cliffs  the  ravenous  vulture  dwells, 
Who  never  fattens  on  the  prey  which  from  afar  he  smells  ; 
But,  patient,  watching  hour  on  hour  upon  a  lofty  rock, 
He  singles  out  some  truant  lamb,  a  victim,  from  the  flock. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  195 

"  One  cloudless  Sabbath  summer  morn,  the  sun  was  rising 

high, 
When,  from  my  children  on  the  green,  I  heard  a  fearful  cry, 
As  if  some  awful  deed  were  done,  a  shriek  of  grief  and  pain, 
A  cry,  I  humbly  trust  in  God,  I  ne'er  may  hear  again. 

"I  hurried  out  to  learn  the  cause ;  but,  overwhelmed  with  fright, 
The  children  never  ceased  to  shriek,  and  from  my  frenzied 

sight 
I  missed  the  youngest  of  my  babes,  the  darling  of  my  care ; 
But  something  caught  my  searching  eyes,  slow  sailing  through 

the  air. 

"  Oh  !  what  an  awful  spectacle  to  meet  a  father's  eye, — 
His  infant  made  a  vulture's  prey,  with  terror  to  descry ; 
And  know,  with  agonizing  breast,  and  with  a  maniac  rave. 
That  earthly  power  could  not  avail,  that  innocent  to  save ! 

"  My  infant  stretched  his  little  hands  imploringly  to  me, 
And  struggled  with  the  ravenous  bird,  all  vainly,  to  get  free  ; 
At  intervals,  I  heard   his  cries,  as  loud  he  shrieked  and 

screamed ! 
Until,  upon  the  azure  sky,  a  lessening  spot  he  seemed. 

"  The  vulture  flapped  his  sail-like  wings,  though  heavily  he 

flew; 
A  mote  upon  the  sun's  broad  face  he  seemed  unto  my  view ; 
But  once  I  thought  I  saw  him  stoop,  as  if  he  would  alight, — 
'Twas  only  a  delusive  thought,  for  all  had  vanished  quite. 

"  All  search  was  vain,  and  years  had  passed ;  that  child  was 

ne'er  forgot. 
When  once  a  daring  hunter  climbed  unto  a  lofty  spot. 
From  whence,  upon  a  rugged  crag  the  chamois  never  reached, 
He  saw  an  infant's  fleshless  bones  the  elements  had  bleached ! 

"  I  clambered  up  that  rugged  clifl", — I  could  not  stay  away, — 
I  knew  they  were  my  infant's  bones  thus  hastening  to  decay  ; 
A  tattered  garment  yet  remained,  though  torn  to  many  a  shred ; 
The  crimson  cap  he  wore  that  morn  was  still  upon  the  head. 


J96  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

"  That  dreary  spot  is  pointed  out  to  travellers  passing  by, 
Who  often  stand,  and,  musing,  gaze,  nor  go  without  a  sigh." 
And  as  I  journeyed,  the  next  morn,  along  my  sunny  way, 
The  precipice  was  shown  to  me,  whereon  the  infant  lay. 


LESSON  LXXXIII. 

Song  of  the  Stars. — Bryant. 

When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke. 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death, 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath, 
And  orbs  of  beauty,  and  spheres  of  flame, 
From  the  void  abyss,  by  myriads  came, 
In  the  joy  of  youth,  as  they  darted  away. 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play. 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung ; 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung : — 

"  Away,  away !  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, — 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 
Each  sun,  with  the  worlds  that  round  us  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole, 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white. 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

"  For  the  Source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space ; 
And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides. 
Lo  !  yonder  the  living  splendors  play : 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path  away ! 

"  Look,  look  !  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star. 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass  1 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass ' 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  xgy 

And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean. 
I 
"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour. 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  morn  and  the  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets,  and  shed  their  dews ; 
And,  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground. 
With  her  shadowy  cone,  the  night  goes  round. 

*'  Away,  away ! — in  our  blossoming  bowers. 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, — 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, — 
See,  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born. 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years  : 
Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 
To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament, — 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  our  lamps  are  dim." 


LESSON  LXXXIV. 

Domestic  Love. — Croly. 

Domestic  Love  !  not  in  proud  palace  halls 

Is  often  seen  thy  beauty  to  abide ; 
Thy  dwelling  is  in  lowly  cottage  walls. 

That  in  the  thickets  of  the  woodbine  hide; 

With  hum  of  bees  around,  and  from  the  side 
Of  woody  hills  some  little  bubbling  spring. 

Shining  along  through  banks  with  harebells  dyed ; 
And  many  a  bird,  to  warble  on  the  wing, 
When  morn  her  saffron  robe  o'er  heaven  and  earth  doth  fling. 
17* 


198  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

O  love  of  loves !  to  thy  white  hand  is  given 

Of  earthly  happiness  the  golden  key ; 
Thine  are  the  joyous  hours  of  winter's  even, 

When  the  babes  cling  around  their  father's  knee  ; 

And  thine  the  voice  that  on  the  midnight  sea 
Melts  the  rude  mariner  with  thoughts  of  home, 

Peopling  the  gloom  with  all  he  longs  to  see. 
Spirit !  I've  built  a  shrine  ;  and  thou  hast  come. 
And  on  its  altar  closed — forever  closed  thy  plume  ! 


LESSON  LXXXV. 

Candor,  in ,  estimating  the  Attainments  of  others,  tecom- 
mended. — Freeman. 

There  are  various  causes,  which  lead  us  to  think  unfavor- 
ably of  the  abilities  of  each  other.  The  most  obvious  is 
envy.  When  the  knowledge  of  another  man  obscures  our 
own,  gives  him  a  preeminence  above  us,  or  is,  in  any  way, 
inconsistent  with  our  interest,  we  are  inclined  to  depreciate 
it,  not  only  by  speaking  against  it,  but  even  by  thinking  ot 
it  unworthily.  For  we  have  such  a  command  over  our 
minds,  that  what  we  passionately  wish  to  be  true,  we  in  time 
come  to  believe.  There  are,  however,  other  causes,  less 
hateful  than  envy,  from  which  the  want  of  candor  proceeds. 

As  our  knowledge  is  of  different  kinds,  we  are  disposed  to 
think  uncandidly  of  the  acquisitions  of  other  men.  We 
know  the  value  of  the  knowledge  which  is  in  our  own  mind ; 
we  can  perceive  its  uses ;  we  remember  the  pains  which  it 
cost  us  to  obtain  it ;  but  none  of  these  things  can  we  see 
without  us.  We  suppose  that  what  is  performed  easily  by 
another,  is  not  in  itself  difficult,  though  that  ease  may  be  the 
effect  of  previous  labor.  We  are  apt,  therefore,  to  under- 
value what  we  imagine  can  be  done  with  so  little  effort ;  and 
we  are  apt  to  judge  uncandidly,  if  it  is  not  done  in  the  best 
manner  possible.  As  our  own  knowledge  is  thus  conceived 
to  be  the  most  difficult,  so  it  is  also  imagined  to  be  of  the 
greatest  importance.    We  too  often  judge  that  the  acquisitions 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  I99 

of  Other  men  are  useless,  and  their  exertions  to  obtain  them 
unprofitable.  Of  what  benefit,  we  inquire,  can  such  things 
be  to  them  or  to  the  world  ? 

The  critic,  who  spends  his  time  in  the  study  of  words, 
regards  the  discoveries  of  the  astronomer  as  of  small  value. 
"  Of  what  use,"  says  he,  "  is  it  to  determine  whether  the  sun  is 
greater  or  less  than  the  earth ;  or  whether  a  planet  has  four 
moons  or  five  ?"  The  astronomer,  on  the  other  hand,  thinks 
the  labors  of  the  critic  equally  unprofitable,  and  that  it  is  the 
idlest  thing  imaginable,  to  employ  months  and  years  in  ascer- 
taining the  genuine  readings  of  an  ancient  author.  The 
mathematician  is  a  dull,  laborious  slave,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
poet,  whilst  the  poet  appears  to  the  mathematician  a  rhyming 
trifler. — These  several  studies  are,  however,  of  benefit  to  the 
world ;  and  the  partial  ideas,  which  we  entertain  respecting 
them,  are  forbidden  by  Christian  charity ;  for  they  render  us 
vain,  prejudiced  and  uncandid. 

Another  cause,  which  leads  men  to  betray  a  want  of  can- 
dor in  judging  of  the  knowledge  of  their  neighbors,  is  this, 
that  their  taste  is  superior  to  their  abilities.  It  is  difficult  to 
attain  perfection  in  any  art  or  science  ;  but  it  is  comparatively 
easy  to  form  an  idea  of  it  in  our  minds.  We  can  know  when 
an  aspirant  falls  short  of  this  perfection,  though  we  ourselves 
cannot  rise  as  high ;  we  can  perceive  his  defects,  though  we 
are  unable  to  mend  them.  In  consequence  of  this  cause, 
how  few  are  allowed  to  be  eminent  in  their  profession  !  Upon 
how  few  are  we  willing  to  bestow  that  applause,  which  is  due 
to  their  abilities ! 

Even  when  a  man  of  splendid  genius  and  the  most  enlarged 
attainments,  exhibits  proofs  of  his  knowledge  and  talents,  we 
are  ready  to  say,  "  He  does  well;  but  certainly  he  ought  to 
do  better.  Such  an  error  ought  to  be  avoided :  such  a 
branch  of  science  is  absolutely  necessary,  and  ought  to  be 
possessed  by  him :  of  this  point  he  is  partially  informed ;  and 
of  that  point  he  is  totally  ignorant." 

These,  and  sentiments  of  the  like  kind,  are  instances  of  a 
want  of  candor.  In  judging  in  this  manner,  we  are  governed 
by  prejudice,  and  do  not  make  proper  allowance  for  the  dead 
weight,  which  soon  brings  to  the  ground  even  the  wings  of 
an  eaaje.     Permit  me,  then,  to  recommend  to  you  to  exercise 


200  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

candor,  when  you  think  or  speak  of  the  knowledge  and 
talents  of  your  fellow  men.  Avoid,  above  all  things,  every 
species  of  envy.  It  is  a  base  passion,  which  ought  not  to 
inhabit  the  breast  of  a  Christian.  The  abilities  of  another 
man  are  not  mean,  merely  because  they  stand  in  your  way ; 
they  are  not  inferior  to  yours,  merely  because  you  wish  them 
to  be  so. 

Study  also  to  obtain  an  acquaintance  with  human  nature 
and  with  yourselves.  A  man  who  has  a  just  idea  of  his  own 
abilities,  will  not  be  uncandid.  For  though  he  will  perceive 
that  he  knows  a  few  things,  yet  he  will  also  be  sensible  that 
he  is  ignorant  in  many  things.  Reflecting  on  the  pains  that 
he  has  taken,  to  obtain  the  science  of  which  he  is  possessed, 
he  will  be  willing  to  acknowledge,  that  others  may  have  ex- 
erted equal  labor.  As  the  knowledge  with  which  he  ig 
endowed  appears  to  him  of  great  importance,  he  will  be 
ready  to  confess,  that  their  knowledge  may  appear  to  them 
important ;  and  that  it  may,  in  fact,  be  full  as  important.  In 
fine,  as  he  must  be  conscious  of  many  defects  in  his  own 
attainments,  he  will  judge  with  candor  of  that  want  of  per- 
fection, which  he  observes  in  them. 

A  just  idea  of  human  nature  destroys  your  prejudices,  and 
renders  you  candid.  For  look  at  men  ;  and  do  you  find  many 
very  foolish,  or  many  very  wise  ?  What  is  called  common 
sense  deserves  the  title  which  is  given  to  it ;  for  it  is,  in  fact, 
common.  Few  men  are  totally  ignorant,  and  few  men  have 
much  knowledge.  The  acquisitions  of  men  are  of  different 
kinds ;  but  their  real  value  may  be  the  same,  as  they  may 
contribute  equally  to  the  benefit  of  society. 

Some  persons  are  showy  in  their  knowledge  ;  they  have 
acquired  the  art  of  joining  words  aptly  together ;  but  this  art 
does  not  give  them  a  right  to  judge  unfavorably  of  the 
knowledge  of  others.  For  a  man  of  splendid  talents,  an 
eloquent  man,  may  not,  after  all,  be  acquainted  with  more 
truths  than  an  humble  and  reserved  man,  who  lives  and  dies 
in  obscurity.  These  considerations  should  teach  us  candor  ; 
and  they  should  deter  us  from  imputing  ignorance  and  folly 
to  any  one,  who  is  not  possessed  of  exactly  the  same  kind  of 
knowledge  as  ourselves.  We  are  too  ready  to  do  this  with- 
out sufficient  grounds ;  but  because  a  person  speaks  absurdly 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  201 

on  a  subject,  with  which  he  is  not  acquainted,  it  does  not 
follow  that  he  is  not  well  informed  in  other  subjects. 

But  what  contributes  more  than  any  thing  to  render  us 
candid  in  our  opinions  of  the  abilities  of  our  fellow  men,  is 
an  enlightened  and  improved  understanding.  They,  who 
have  only  sipped  at  the  fountain  of  science,  are  the  least 
disposed  to  be  pleased,  the  most  inclined  to  be  critical  and 
severe,  the  most  ready  to  find  fault,  and  the  most  acute  in 
discovering  defects. 

A  man  of  enlarged  knowledge  is  acquainted  with  the 
difficulties,  which  obstruct  the  path  of  science.  He  is  sensi- 
ble, that  though  he  has  frequently  attempted  to  excel,  yet 
that  he  has  seldom,  perhaps  never,  been  able  to  attain  the 
end  proposed.  Convinced  that  every  human  mind  is  limited, 
and  that  the  best  instructed  persons  soon  disclose  all  that 
they  know,  he  views  with  candid  eyes  those  blanks  of  igno- 
rance, which  occupy  such  large  spaces  in  the  souls  of  other 
men.  A  man  of  extensive  abilities  also  knows  how  difficult 
it  is,  sometimes,  to  distinguish  wisdom  from  folly,  what  is 
genuine  from  what  is  spurious.  As  he  cannot  always  deter- 
mine whether  his  own  tongue  is  uttering  good  sense  or  not, 
he  will  candidly  pardon  the  speaker  whom  he  hears,  and  the 
friend  with  whom  he  converses,  if  he  sometimes  discovers 
that  they  are  not  wiser  than  himself. 


LESSON  LXXXVI. 

The  Profession  of  a  Woman. — Miss  C.  E.  Beecher. 

It  is  to  mothers  and  to  teachers,  that  the  world  is  to  look 
for  the  character,  which  is  to  be  enstamped  on  each  succeed- 
ing generation ;  for  it  is  to  them  that  the  great  business  of 
education  is  almost  exclusively  committed.  And  will  it  not 
appear  by  examination,  that  neither  mothers  iior  teachers 
have  ever  been  properly  educated  for  their  profession  1  What 
is  the  profession  of  a  woman  1  Is  it  not  to  form  immortal 
minds,  and  to  watch,  to  nurse,  and  to  rear  the  bodily  system, 
so  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made,  and  upon  the  order  and 


202  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

regulation  of  which,  the  health  and  well-being  of  the  mind 
so  greatly  depends  ? 

But  let  most  of  our  sex,  upon  whom  these  arduous  duties 
devolve,  be  asked, — "  Have  you  ever  devoted  any  time  and 
study,  in  the  course  of  your  education,  to  a  preparation  for 
these  duties  1  Have  you  been  taught  any  thing  of  the  struc- 
ture, the  nature  and  the  laws  of  the  body,  which  you 
inhabit  ?  Were  you  ever  taught  to  understand  the  operation 
of  diet,  air,  exercise  and  modes  of  dress  upon  the  human 
frame  ?  Have  the  causes  which  are  continually  operating  to 
prevent  good  health,  and  the  modes  by  which  it  might  be 
perfected  and  preserved,  ever  been  made  the  subject  of  any 
instruction  V 

Perhaps  almost  every  voice  would  respond, — "  No  ;  we 
have  attended  to  almost  every  thing  more  than  to  this ; 
we  have  been  taught  more  concerning  the  structure  of  the 
earth,  the  laws  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  the  habits  and 
formation  of  plants,  the  philosophy  of  language,  than 
concerning  the  structure  of  the  human  frame,  and  the  laws 
of  health  and  reason."  But  is  it  not  the  business,  the  pro^ 
fession  of  a  woman,  to  guard  the  health  and  form  the  physi- 
cal habits  of  the  young  1  And  is  not  the  cradle  of  infancy 
and  the  chamber  of  sickness  sacred  to  woman  alone  1  And 
ought  she  not  to  know,  at  least,  some  of  the  general  princi- 
ples of  that  perfect  and  wonderful  piece  of  mechanism, 
committed  to  her  preservation  and  care  ? 

The  restoration  of  health  is  the  physician's  profession,  but 
the  preservation  of  it  falls  to  other  hands  ;  and  it  is  believed 
that  the  time  will  come,  when  woman  will  be  taught  to 
understand  something  respecting  the  construction  of  the 
human  frame  ;  the  philosophical  results  which  will  naturally 
follow  from  restricted  exercise,  unhealthy  modes  of  dress, 
improper  diet,  and  many  other  causes,  which  are  continually 
operating  to  destroy  the  health  and  life  of  the  young. 

Again,  let  our  sex  be  asked  respecting  the  instruction  they 
have  received,  in  the  course  of  their  education,  on  that  still 
more  arduous  and  difficult  department  of  their  profession, 
which  relates  to  the  intellect  and  the  moral  susceptibilities, — 
"  Have  you  been  taught  the  powers  and  faculties  of  the  hu- 
man mind,  and  the  laws  by  which  it  is  regulated  1     Have 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  203 

you  studied  how  to  direct  its  several  faculties ;  how  to  restore 
those  that  are  overgrown,  and  strengthen  and  mature  those 
that  are  deficient  ?  Have  you  been  taught  the  best  modes  of 
communicating  knowledge,  as  well  as  of  acquiring  it  ?  Have 
you  learned  the  best  mode  of  correcting  bad  moral  habits, 
and  forming  good  ones  ?  Have  you  made  it  an  object,  to  find 
how  a  selfish  disposition  may  be  made  generous ;  how  a 
reserved  temper  may  be  made  open  and  frank  ;  how  pettish- 
ness  and  ill-humor  may  be  changed  to  cheerfulness  and 
kindness  ?  Has  any  woman  studied  her  profession  in  this 
respect  ? 

It  is  feared  the  same  answer  must  be  returned,  if  not  from 
all,  at  least  from  most  of  our  sex : — "  No  ;  we  have  acquired 
wisdom  from  the  observation  and  experience  of  others,  on 
almost  all  other  subjects  ;  but  the  philosophy  of  the  direction 
and  control  of  the  human  mind,  has  not  been  an  object  of 
thought  or  study."  And  thus  it  appears,  that,  though  it  is 
woman's  express  business  to  rear  the  body  and  form  the 
mind,  there  is  scarcely  any  thing  to  which  her  attention  has 
been  less  directed. 


LESSON   LXXXVn. 

Curiosity. — C.  Sprague. 

It  came  from  Heaven — its  power  archangels  knew, 
When  this  fair  globe  first  rounded  to  their  view ; 
When  the  young  sun  revealed  the  glorious  scene, 
Where  oceans  gathered,  and  where  lands  grew  green  ; 
When  the  dead  dust  in  joyful  myriads  swarmed, 
And  man,  the  clod,  with  God's  own  breath  was  warmed. 
It  reigned  in  Eden — when  that  man  first  woke, 
Its  kindling  influence  from  his  eyeballs  spoke  ; 
No  roving  childhood,  no  exploring  youth, 
Led  him  along,  till  wonder  chilled  to  truth ; 
Full-formed  at  once,  his  subject  world  he  trod, 
And  gazed  upon  the  labors  of  his  God  ; 


204  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

On  all,  by  turns,  his  chartered  glance  was  cast, 
While  each  pleased  best,  as  each  appeared  the  last ; 
But  when  She  came,  in  nature's  blameless  pride, 
Bone  of  his  bone,  his  heaven-anointed  bride, 
All  meaner  objects  faded  from  his  sight, 
And  sense  turned  giddy  with  the  new  delight ; 
Those  charmed  his  eye,  but  this  entranced  his  soul, 
Another  self,  queen-wonder  of  the  whole ! 
Rapt  at  the  view,  in  ecstasy  he  stood. 
And,  like  his  Maker,  saw  that  all  was  good. 

It  reigned  in  Eden — in  that  heavy  hour 
When  the  arch-tempter  sought  our  mother's  bower, 
Its  thrilling  charm  her  yielding  heart  assailed. 
And  even  o'er  dread  Jehovah's  word  prevailed. 
There  the  fair  tree  in  fatal  beauty  grew. 
And  hung  its  mystic  apples  to  hei;  view : 
"  Eat,"  breathed  the  fiend,  beneath  his  serpent  guise, 
"  Ye  shall  know  all  things  ;  gather,  and  be  wise  !" 
Sweet  on  her  ear  the  wily  falsehood  stole, 
And  roused  the  ruling  passion  of  her  soul. 
*'  Ye  shall  become  like  God," — transcendent  fate ! 
That  God's  command  forgot,  she  plucked  and  ate  ; 
Ate,  and  her  partner  lured  to  share  the  crime. 
Whose  wo,  "the  legend  saith,  must  live  through  time. 
For  this  they  shrank  before  the  Avenger's  face  ; 
For  this  he  drove  them  from  the  sacred  place ; 
For  this  came  down  the  universal  lot. 
To  weep,  to  wander,  die,  and  be  forgot. 

It  came  from  Heaven — it  reigned  in  Eden's  shades — 
It  roves  on  earth — and  every  walk  invades : 
Childhood  and  age  alike  its  influence  own  ; 
It  haunts  the  beggar's  nook,  the  monarch's  throne ; 
Hangs  o'er  the  cradle,  leans  above  the  bier. 
Gazed  on  old  Babel's  tower — and  lingers  here. 

To  all  that's  lofty,  all  that's  low,  it  turns  ; 
With  terror  curdles,  and  with  rapture  burns ; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  205 

Now  feels  a  seraph's  throb,  now,  less  than  man's, 

A  reptile  tortures  and  a  planet  scans ; 

Now  idly  joins  in  life's  poor,  passing  jars, 

Now  shakes  creation  off,  and  soars  beyond  the  stars. 

'Tis  Curiosity — who  hath  not  felt 
Its  spirit,  and  before  its  altar  knelt  ? 
In  the  pleased  infant  see  its  power  expand, 
When  first  the  coral  fills  his  little  hand  ; 
Throned  in  his  mother's  lap,  it  dries  each  tear, 
As  her  sweet  legend  falls  upon  his  ear. 
Next  it  assails  him  in  his  top's  strange  hum, 
Breathes  in  his  whistle,  echoes  in  his  drum ; 
Each  gilded  toy,  that  doting  love  bestows, 
He  longs  to  break,  and  every  spring  expose. 
Placed  by  your  hearth,  with  what  delight  he  pores 
O'er  the  bright  pages  of  his  pictured  stores ! 
How  oft  he  steals  upon  your  graver  task, 
Of  this  to  tell  you,  and  of  that  to  ask  ! 
And,  when  the  waning  hour  to-bedward  bids. 
Though  gentle  sleep  sit  waiting  on  his  lids, 
How  winningly  he  pleads  to  gain  you  o'er, 
That  he  may  read  one  little  story  more ! 

Nor  yet  alone  to  toys  and  tales  confined, 
It  sits,  dark  brooding,  o'er  his  embryo  mind. 
Take  him  between  your  knees,  peruse  his  face, 
While  all  you  know,  or  think  you  know,  you  trace ; 
Tell  him  who  spoke  creation  into  birth. 
Arched  the  broad  heavens,  and  spread  the  rolling  earth  : 
Who  formed  a  pathway  for  the  obedient  sun, 
And  bade  the  seasons  in  their  circles  run ; 
Who  filled  the  air,  the  forest  and  the  flood, 
And  gave  man  all,  for  comfort  or  for  food ; 
Tell  him  they  sprang  at  God's  creating  nod — 
He  stops  you  short,  with — *'  Father,  who  made  God?" 

Thus,  through  life's  stages,  may  we  mark  the  power 
That  masters  man  in  every  clianging  hour 
18 


205  YOUNG  LADIirS'  CLASS  BOOK. 

It  tempts  him,  from  the  blandishments  of  home, 
Mountains  to  climb,  and  frozen  seas  to  roam ; 
By  air-blown  bubbles  buoyed,  it  bids  him  rise, 
And  hang  an  atom  in  the  vaulted  skies ; 
Lured  by  its  charm,  he  sits  and  learns  to  trace 
The  midnight  wanderings  of  the  orbs  of  space ;    ' 
Boldly  he  knocks  at  wisdom's  inmost  gate, 
With  nature  counsels,  and  communes  with  fate  ; 
Below,  above,  o'er  all  he  dares  to  rove, 
In  all  finds  God,  and  finds  that  God  all  love. 


LESSON  LXXXVIIL 

Tht  hove  of  Country  and  of  Home. — Montgomery. 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride. 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside  ; 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light. 
And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night ; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth. 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth. 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air  ; 
In  every  clime,  the  magnet  of  his  soul. 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole : 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven's  peculiar  grace 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race. 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While,  in  his  softened  looks,  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  father,  friend. 


^ 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  207 


Here  woman  reigns ;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 
Strows  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life ; 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 
And  fire-side  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 
Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth,  be  found  ? 
Art  thou  a  man? — a  patriot? — look  around  ; 
Oh !  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  thy  country^  and  that  spot  thy  home. 


LESSON  LXXXIX. 
Columbus  in  CJiains. — Miss  M.  J.  Jewsbury. 

'TwAS  eve  : — upon  his  chariot  throne 
The  sun  sank  lingering  in  the  west ; 

But  sea  and  sky  were  there  alone. 
To  hail  him  in  this  hour  of  rest : 

Yet  never  shone  his  glorious  light 

More  calmly,  gloriously  bright. 

Nor  clouds  above,  nor  wave  below. 
Nor  human  sound,  nor  earthly  air. 

Mingled  with  that  o'erwhelming  glow. 
Marred  the  deep  peace  reposing  there  ; 

The  sea  looked  of  the  sky's  fair  mould, 

The  sky,  a  sea  of  burning  gold. 

Anon,  a  single  ship,  from  far, 

Came  softly  gliding  o^er  the  sea : 
Lovely  and  quiet  as  a  star. 

When  its  fair  path  is  calm  and  free, 
Or  like  a  bird  with  snow-white  wing, 
Came  on  that  glittering,  gentle  thing. 


208  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

She  came  with  buoyant  beaUty  crowned, 
And  yet  disturbed  the  scene's  repose ;    . 
'  For  she,  of  all  the  objects  round, 
Alone  was  linked  to  human  woes  ; 
She  only,  mid  the  glorious  span. 
Spoke  of  the  world, — the  world  of  man. 

And  yet  she  bore  from  conquering  feat. 
The  brave,  the  joyous  and  the  free, 

And  many  a  nobler  heart  that  beat 
With  hopes  as  boundless  as  the  sea ; 

One  only  felt  his  course  was  run, — 

He  gazed  upon  the  sinking  sun. 

His  the  keen  eye  and  stately  form, 
And  reason's  majesty  of  brow  ; 

His  the  firm  soul,  that  danger's  storm, 
When  most  it  baffled,  could  not  bow, — 

The  soul  that  taught  him  now  to  wear 

His  fetters  with  a  kingly  air. 

Yet  was  that  mighty  soul  subdued 
By  man's  neglect  and  sorrow's  sway. 

As  rocks,  that  have  the  storm  withstood. 
May  silent  waters  wear  away. 

But  the  vexed  spirit  spurned  its  yoke ; 

He  looked  upon  his  chains,  and  spoke  : — 

"  Adopted  land !  Adopted  land ! — 
And  these,  then,  are  thy  gifts  for  me, 

Who  dared,  where  unknown  seas  expand, 
Seek  realms  and  riches  vast  for  thee ! 

Who  made,  without  thy  fostering  power, 

An  undivided  world  thy  dower  ! 

"  O'er  Spain  yon  glorious  sun  may  set. 
And  leave  her  native  realm  awhile  ; 

May  rise  o'er  other  lands, — and  yet — 
Even  there— on  her  dominions  smile ; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  209 

Be,  when  his  daily  course  is  run, 
To  Spain  a  never-setting  sun. 

"  I  served  thee  as  a  son  would  serve ; 

I  loved  thee  with  a  father's  love ; 
It  ruled  my  thought,  and  strung  my  nerve, 

To  raise  thee  other  lands  above, 
And,  from  a  queen  of  earth,  to  be 
The  single  empress  of  the  sea. 

"  For  thee  my  form  is  bowed  and  worn 

With  midnight  watches  on  the  main ; 
For  thee  my  soul  hath  calmly  borne 

Ills  worse  than  sorrow,  more  than  pain ; 
Through  life,  whate'er  my  lot  may  be, 
I  lived,  dared,  suffered,  but  for  thee. 

"  My  guerdon  ? — 'Tis  a  furrowed  brow, 
Hair  gray  with  grief,  eyes  dim  with  tears. 

And  blighted  hope,  and  broken  vow. 
And  poverty  for  coming  years. 

And  hate,  with  malice  in  her  train  : — 

What  other  guerdon  1 — View  my  chain ! 

"  Yet  say  not  that  I  weep  for  gold  ; 

No,  let  it  be  the  robber's  spoil ; 
Nor  yet,  that  hate  and  malice  bold     , 

Decry  my  triumph  and  my  toil : — 
I  weep  but  for  my  country's  shame  ; 
I  weep  but  for  her  blackened  fame. 

"  No  more. — The  sun-light  leaves  the  sea ; 

Farewell,  thou  never-dying  king  ! 
Earth's  clouds  and  changes  change  not  thee  ; 

And  thou, — and  thou, — grim,  giant  thing. 
Cause  of  my  glory  and  my  pain, — 
Farewell,  unfathomable  main !" 
18* 


210  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON    XC. 

On  Respect  for  Ancestors. — Quincy. 

Of  all  the  affections  of  man,  those  which  connect  him 
with  ancestry  are  among  the  most  natural  and  generous. 
They  enlarge  the  sphere  of  his  interests,  multiply  his  mo- 
tives to  virtue,  and  give  intensity  to  his  sense  of  duty  to 
generations  to  come,  by  the  perception  of  obligation  to  those 
which  are  past.  In  whatever  mode  of  existence  man  finds 
himself,  be  it  savage  or  civilized,  he  perceives  that  he  is 
indebted  for  the  far  greater  part  of  his  possessions  and  en- 
joyments, to  events  over  which  he  had  no  control ;  to  indi-. 
viduals,  whose  names,  perhaps,  never  reached  his  ear;  to 
sacrifices,  in  which  he  never  shared;  and  to  sufferings, 
awakening  in  his  bosom  few  and  very  transient  sympathies. 

Cities  and  empires,  not  less  than  individuals,  are  chiefly 
indebted  for  their  fortunes  to  circumstances  and  influences 
independent  of  the  labors  and  wisdom  of  the  passing  genera- 
tion. Is  our  lot  cast  in  a  happy  soil,  beneath  a  favored  sky, 
and  under  the  shelter  of  free  institutions  1  How  few  of  all 
these  blessings  do  we  owe  to  our  own  power,  or  our  own 
prudence !  How  few,  on  which  we  cannot  discern  the  im- 
press of  long  past  generations! 

It  is  natural,  that  reflections  of  this  kind  should  awaken 
curiosity  concerning  the  men  of  past  ages.  It  is  suitable, 
and  characteristic  of  noble  natures,  to  love  to  trace  in  vener- 
ated institutions  the  evidences  of  ancestral  worth  .  and 
wisdom ;  and  to  cherish  that  iningled  sentiment  of  awe  and 
admiration,  which  takes  possession  of  the  soul,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  ancient,  deep-laid,  and  massy  monuments  of  intel- 
lectual and  moral  power. 


LESSON  XCI. 

Character  of  the  Puritans. — Story. 

It  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  scoffer,  or  the  skeptic,  of  the 
'parasite,  who  fawns  on  courts,  or  the  proselyte,  who  dotes  on 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  211 

the  infallibility  of  his  own  sect,  to  obscure  the  real  dignity  of 
the  character  of  the  Puritans.  We  may  lament  their  errors ; 
we  may  regret  their  prejudices  ;  we  may  pity  their  infirmities ; 
we  may  smile  at  the  stress  laid  by  them  on  petty  observances 
and  trifling  forms.  We  may  believe  that  their  piety  was 
mixed  up  with  too  much  gloom  and  severity ;  that  it  was 
sometimes  darkened  by  superstition,  and  sometimes  degraded 
by  fanaticism ;  that  it  shut  out  too  much  the  innocent  pleas- 
ures of  life,  and  enforced  too  strictly  a  discipline,  irksome, 
cheerless  and  oppressive ;  that  it  was  sometimes  over  rigid, 
when  it  might  have  been  indulgent;  stern,  when  it  might 
have  been  affectionate ;  pertinacious,  when  concession  would 
have  been  just,  as  well  as  graceful ;  and  flashing  with  fiery 
zeal,  when  charity  demanded  moderation,  and  ensured  peace. 

All  this,  and  much  more,  may  be  admitted, — for  they  were 
but  men,  frail,  fallible  men, — and  yet  leave  behind  solid 
claims  upon  the  reverence  and  admiration  of  mankind.  Of 
them  it  may  be  said,  with  as  much  truth  as  of  any  men,  that 
have  ever  lived,  that  they  acted  up  to  their  principles,  and 
followed  them  out  with  an  unfaltering  firmness.  They  dis- 
played, at  all  times,  a  downright  honesty  of  heart  and  purpose. 
In  simplicity  of  life,  in  godly  sincerity,  in  temperance,  in 
humility  and  in  patience,  as  well  as  in  zeal,  they  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  apostolical  age. 

Their  wisdom,  while  it  looked  on  this  world,  reached  far 
beyond  it  in  its  aim  and  objects.  They  valued  earthly  pur- 
suits no  farther  than  they  were  consistent  with  religion. 
Amidst  the  temptations  of  human  grandeur,  they  stood  un- 
moved, unshaken,  unseduced.  Their  scruples  of  conscience, 
if  they  sometimes  betrayed  them  into  difficulty,  never  betray- 
ed them  into  voluntary  sin.  They  possessed  a  moral  courage, 
which  looked  present  dangers  in  the  face,  as  though  they  were 
distant  or  doubtful,  seeking  no  escape,  and  indulging  no 
terror. 

When,  in  defence  of  their  faith,  of  what  they  deemed  pure 
and  undefiled  religion,  we  see  them  resign  their  property, 
their  preferments,  their  friends  and  their  homes ;  when  we 
see  them  submitting  to  banishment,  and  ignominy,  and  even 
to  death ;  when  we  see  them  in  foreign  lands,  on  inhospitable 
shores,  in  the  midst  of  sickness  and  famine,  in  desolation 


2X2  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

and  disaster,  still  true  to  themselves,  still  confident  in  God's 
providence,  still  submissive  to  his  chastisements,  still  thankful 
for  his  blessings,  still  ready  to  exclaim,  in  the  language  of 
Scripture,  *'We  are  troubled  on  every  side,  yet  not  dis- 
tressed ;  we  are  perplexed,  but  not  in  despair ;  persecuted, 
but  not  forsaken ;  cast  down,  but  not  destroyed ;"  when  we 
see  such  things,  where  is  the  man,  whose  soul  does  not  melt 
within  him  at  the  sight  1  Where  shall  examples  be  sought 
or  found  more  full,  to  point  out  what  Christianity  is,  and 
what  it  ought  to  accomplish  1 

What  better  origin  could  we  desire,  than  from  men  of 
characters  like  these  1  Men,  to  whom  conscience  was  every 
thing,  and  worldly  prosperity  nothing.  Men,  whose  thoughts 
belonged  to  eternity  rather  than  to  time.  Men,  who,  in  the 
near  prospect  of  their  sacrifices,  could  say,  as  our  forefathers 
did  say,  *'  When  we  are  in  our  graves,  it  will  be  all  one, 
whether  we  have  lived  in  plenty  or  in  penury ;  whether  we 
have  died  in  a  bed  of  down,  or  locks  of  straw.  Only  this  is 
the  advantage  of  the  mean  condition,  that  it  is  a  more 
FREEDOM  TO  DIE.  And  the  less  comfort  any  have  in  the 
things  of  this  world,  the  more  liberty  they  have  to  lay  up 
treasure  in  heaven."  Men,  who,  in  answer  to  the  objection, 
urged  by  the  anxiety  of  friendship,  that  they  might  perish  by 
the  way,  or  by  hunger  or  the  sword,  could  answer,  as  our 
forefathers  did,  *'  We  may  trust  God's  providence  for  these 
things.  Either  he  will  keep  these  evils  from  us,  or  will 
dispose  them  for  our  good,  and  enable  us  to  bear  them." 
Men,  who,  in  still  later  days,  in  their  appeal  for  protection  to 
the  throne,  could  say,  with  pathetic  truth  and  simplicity,  as 
our  forefathers  did,  "  That  we  might  enjoy  divine  worship 
without  human  mixtures,  without  offence  to  God,  man,  our 
own  consciences,  with  leave,  but  not  witJwut  tears,  we  departed 
'  from  our  country,  kindred,  and  fathers'  houses  into  this  Pat- 
mos ;  in  relation  whereunto  we  do  not  say.  Our  garments  are 
become  old,  by  reason  of  the  very  long  journey,  but  that 
ourselves,  who  came  away  in  our  strength,  are,  by  reason  of 
long  absence,  many  of  us  become  gray-headed,  and  some  of 
us  stooping  for  age." 

If  these  be  not  the   sentiments  of  lofty  virtue ;    if  they 
breathe  not  the  genuine  spirit  of  Christianity ;  if  they  speak 


YOUNG   LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  213 

not  high  approaches  towards  moral  perfection  ;  if  they  possess 
not  an  enduring  sublimity ;  then,  indeed,  have  I  ill  read  the 
human  heart ;  then,  indeed,  have  I  strangely  mistaken  the 
inspirations  of  religion.  If  men  like  these  can  be  passed 
by  with  indifference,  because  they  wore  not  the  princely 
robes,  or  the  sacred  lawn,  because  they  shone  not  in  courts, 
nor  feasted  in  fashionable  circles ;  then,  indeed,  is  Christian 
glory  a  vain  shadow,  and  human  virtue  a  dream,  about  which 
we  disquiet  ourselves  in  vain. 

But  it  is  not  so — it  is  not  so.  There  are  those  around  me, 
whose  hearts  beat  high,  and  whose  lips  grow  eloquent,  when 
the  remembrance  of  such  ancestors  comes  over  their  thoughts ; 
when  they  read  in  their  deeds,  not  the  empty  forms,  but  the 
essence  of  holy  living  and  holy  dying.  Time  was,  when  the 
exploits  of  war,  the  heroes  of  many  battles,  the  conquerors 
of  millions,  the  men  who  waded  through  slaughter  to  thrones, 
the  kings  whose  footsteps  were  darkened  with  blood,  and 
the  sceptred  oppressors  of  the  earth,  were  alone  deemed 
worthy  themes  for  the  poet  and  the  orator,  for  the  song  of 
the  minstrel,  and  the  hosannas  of  the  multitude.  Time  was, 
when  feats  of  arms,  and  tournaments,  and  crusades,  and  the 
high  array  of  chivalry,  and  the  pride  of  royal  banners  waving 
for  victory,  engrossed  all  minds. 

Time  was,  when  the  ministers  of  the  altar  sat  down  by  the 
side  of  the  tyrant,  and  numbered  his  victims,  and  stimulated 
his  persecutions,  and  screened  the  instruments  of  his  crimes ; 
and  there  was  praise,  and  glory,  and  revelry,  for  these 
things.  Murder  and  rapine,  burning  cities  and  desolated 
plains,  if  they  were  at  the  bidding  of  royal  or  baronial 
feuds,  led  on  by  the  courtier  or  the  clan,  were  matters  of 
public  boast,  the  delight  of  courts,  and  the  treasured  pleasure 
of  the  fireside  tales.  But  these  times  have  passed  away. 
Christianity  has  resumed  her  meek  and  holy  reign.  The 
Puritans  have  not  lived  in  vain.  The  simple  piety  of  the 
pilgrims  of  New  England  casts  into  shade  this  false  glitter, 
which  dazzled  and  betrayed  men  into  the  worship  of  their 
destroyers. 


214  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON   XCII. 
The  Coming  of  the  Pilgrims* — W.  Sullivan. 

Here  begins  that  vast  wilderness,  which  no  civilized  man 
has  beheld.  Whither  does  it  extend,  and  what  is  contained 
within  its  unmeasured  limits  1  Through  what  thousands  of 
years  has  it  undergone  no  change,  but  in  the  silent  move- 
ments of  renovation  and  decay?  To  how  many  vernal 
seasons  has  it  unfolded  its  leaves ; — to  how  many  autumnal 
frosts  has  it  yielded  its  verdure  ?  This  unvaried  solitude ! 
What  has  disturbed  its  tranquillity,  through  uncounted  ages, 
but  the  rising  of  the  winds,  or  the  rending  of  the  storms  1 
What  sounds  have  echoed  through  its  deep  recesses,  but  those 
of  craving  and  of  rage  from  the  beasts  which  it  shelters,  or 
the  war-song  and  the  war-whoop  of  its  sullen,  smileless  mas- 
ters ?  Man,  social,  inventive,  improving  man, — his  footstep, 
his  handiwork,  are  nowhere  discerned.  The  beings,  who 
wear  his  form,  have  added  nothing  to  knowledge,  through  all 
their  generations.  Like  the  game  which  they  pursue,  they 
are  the  same  now,  which  their  progenitors  were  when  their 
race  began. 

These  distant  and  widely  separated  columns  of  smoke, 
that  throw  their  graceful  forms  towards  the  sky,  indicate  no 
social,  no  domestic  abodes.  The  snows  have  descended  to 
cover  the  fallen  foliage  of  the  departed  year ;  the  winds  pass, 
with  a  mournful  sound,  through  the  leafless  branches ;  the 
Indian  has  retired  to  his  dark  dwelling ;  and  the  tenants  of 
the  forest  have  hidden  themselves  in  the  earth,  to  escape  the 
search  of  winter. 

This  ocean,  that  spreads  out  before  us ! — how  many  of  its 
mountain  waves  rise  up  between  us  and  the  abodes  of  civil- 
ized men  !  Its  surges  break  and  echo  on  this  lonely  shore, 
as  they  did  when  the  storms  first  waked  them  from  their 

*  Extracted  from  a  Discourse  delivered  at  Plymouth,  Dec.  22, 1829. — In  the 
reflections  quoted  above,  the  author  goes  back,  in  imagination,  to  the  time 
when  New  England  was  first  settled,  and  "  stands  upon  the  shore  which  the  pil 
grims  were  approacliing." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  215 

sleep,  without  having  brought,  or  carried,  any  work  of  human 
hands,  unless  it  be  the  frail  canoe,  urged  on  by  hunger  or 
revenge.  How  appalling  is  this  solitude  of  the  wilderness  ! 
how  cheerless  this  wide  waste  of  waters,  on  which  nothing 
moves  ! 

A  new  object  rises  to  our  view  !  It  is  that  proud  result  of 
human  genius,  which  finds  its  way  where  it  leaves  no  trace 
of  itself,  yet  connects  the  severed  continents  of  the  globe. 
It  is  full  of  human  beings  of  a  complexion  unknown  in  this 
far  distant  clime.  They  come  from  a  world  skilled  in  the 
social  arts.  Are  they  adventurers,  thirsting  for  gain,  or 
seeking,  in  these  unexplored  regions,  new  gifts  for  the 
treasury  of  science  ?  Their  boats  are  filled  ;  they  touch  the 
land.  They  are  followed  by  tender  females,  and  more  tender 
offspring ;  such  beings  as  a  wild  desert  never  before  received. 
They  commence  the  making  of  habitations.  They  disem- 
bark their  goods. 

Have  they  abandoned  their  returning  ship  ?  Are  they  to 
encounter,  in  their  frail  tenements,  the  winter's  tempest  and 
the  accumulating  snows  ?  Do  they  know,  that  these  dark 
forests,  through  which  even  the  winds  come  not  without 
dismal  and  terrifying  sound,  is  the  home  of  the  savage,  whose 
first  prompting  is  to  destroy  that  he  may  rob  ?  Do  they  know 
that  disease  must  be  the  inmate  of  their  dwellings  in  their 
untried  exposure?  If  the  savage,  if  disease,  selects  no 
victims,  will  famine  stay  its  merciless  hand?  Do  they  know 
how  slowly  the  forest  yields  to  human  industry  ?  Do  they 
realize  how  long,  how  lonesome,  how  perilous  it  will  be  to 
their  little  group,  before  want  can  be  supplied  and  security 
obtained?  Can  they  have  come,  voluntarily,  to  encounter 
all  these  unavoidable  evils  ?  Have  they  given  up  their  native 
land,  their  precious  homes,  their  kind  friends,  their  kindred, 
the  comfort  and  the  fellowship  of  civilized  and  polished  life? 
Is  this  the  evidence  of  affectionate  solicitude  of  husbands,  of 
anxious  tenderness  of  parents,  or  the  sad  measure  of  distem- 
pered minds  ?  Wherefore  are  they  come  ?  What  did  they 
suffer,  what  did  they  fear,  what  do  they  expect,  or  hope,  that 
they  have  chosen  exile  here,  and  to  become  the  watchful 
neighbor  of  the  treacherous  Indian  ? 


216  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

They  gather  themselves  together,  and  assume  the  posture 
of  humble  devotion.  They  pour  forth  the  sentiments  of 
praise,  of  hope,  of  unshaken  confidence.  They  cast  them- 
selves, their  wives,  their  children,  into  the  arms  of  that 
beneficent  Parent,  vs^ho  is  present  in  the  wilderness  no  less 
than  the  crowded  city.  It  is  to  Him  that  they  look  for 
support  amidst  the  wants  of  nature,  for  shelter  against 
the  storm,  for  protection  against  the  savage,  for  relief  in 
disease. 


LESSON  XCIII. 

Lady  Arabella  Johnson. — Story. 

The  lady  Arabella  Johnson,  a  daughter  of  the  earl  of 
Lincoln,  accompanied  her  husband  in  the  embarkation  under 
Winthrop ;  and,  in  honor  of  her,  the  admiral  ship,  on  that 
occasion,  was  called  by  her  name.  She  died  in  a  very  short 
time  after  her  arrival,  and  lies  buried  near  the  neighboring 
shore.  No  stone,  or  other  memorial,  indicates  the  exact  place ; 
but  tradition  has  preserved  it  with  a  holy  reverence.  The 
remembrance  of  her  excellence  is  yet  fresh  in  all  our 
thoughts ;  and  many  a  heart  still  kindles  with  admiration  of 
her  virtues  ;  and  many  a  bosom  heaves  with  sighs  at  her 
untimely  end. 

What,  indeed,  could  be  more  touching  than  the  fate  of 
such  a  woman  ?  What  example  more  striking  than  hers,  of 
uncompromising  affection  and  piety?  Born  in  the  lap  of 
ease,  and  surrounded  by  affluence ;  with  every  prospect  which 
could  make  hope  gay,  and  fortune  desirable ;  accustomed  to 
the  splendors  of  a  court,  and  the  scarcely  less  splendid  hos- 
pitalities of  her  ancestral  home;  she  was  yet  content  to 
quit,  what  has,  not  inaptly,  been  termed  "  this  paradise  of 
plenty  and  pleasure,"  for  "  a  wilderness  of  wants,"  and,  with 
a  fortitude  superior  to  the  delicacies  of  her  rank  and  sex,  to 
trust  herself  to  an  unknown  ocean  and  a  distant  climate. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  217 

that  she  might  partake,  with  her  husband,  the  pure  and 
spiritual  worship  of  God. 

To  the  honor,  to  the  eternal  honor  of  her  sex,  be  it  said,  that, 
in  the  path  of  duty,  no  sacrifice  is  with  them  too  high  or  too 
dear.  Nothing  is  with  them  impossible,  but  to  shrink  from 
what  love,  honor,  innocence,  religion,  requires.  The  voice 
of  pleasure  or  of  power  may  pass  by  unheeded ;  but  the 
voice  of  affliction  never.  The  chamber  of  the  sick,  the 
pillow  of  the  dying,  the  vigils  of  the  dead,  the  altars  of  re- 
ligion, never  missed  the  presence  or  the  sympathies  of  woman. 
Timid  though  she  be,  and  so  delicate  that  the  winds  of 
heaven  may  not  too  roughly  visit  her,  on  such  occasions  she 
loses  all  sense  of  danger,  and  assumes  a  preternatural  cour- 
age, which  knows  not,  and  fears  not  consequences.  Then 
she  displays  that  undaunted  spirit,  which  neither  courts 
difficulties,  nor  evades  them  ;  that  resignation,  which  utters 
neither  murmur  nor  regret ;  and  that  patience  in  suffering, 
which  seems  victorious  even  over  death  itself. 

The  lady  Arabella  perished  in  this  noble  undertaking,  of 
which  she  seemed  the  ministering  angel ;  and  her  death 
spread  universal  gloom  throughout  the  colony.  Her  husband 
was  overwhelmed  with  grief  at  the  unexpected  event,  and 
survived  her  but  a  single  month.  Governor  Winthrop  has 
pronounced  his  eulogy  in  one  short  sentence  :— "  He  was  a 
holy  man,  and  wise,  and  died  in  sweet  peace." 

He  was  truly  the  idol  of  the  people  ;  and  the  spot  selected 
by  himself  for  his  own  sepulture  became  consecrated  in  their 
eyes  ;  so  that  many  left  it  as  a  dying  request,  that  they  might 
be  buried  by  his  side.  Their  request  prevailed  ;  and  the 
Chapel  burying-ground  in  Boston,  which  contains  his  re- 
mains, became,  from  that  time,  appropriated  to  the  repose  of 
the  dead.  Perhaps  the  best  tribute  to  this  excellent  pair  is, 
that  time,  which,  with  so  unsparing  a  hand,  consigns  states- 
men, and  heroes,  and  even  sages,  to  oblivion,  has  embalmed 
the  memory  of  their  worth,  and  preserved  it  among  the 
choicest  of  New  England  relics.  It  can  scarcely  be  forgot- 
ten, but  with  the  annals  of  our  country. 
19 


218  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  XCIV. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers. — C.  Sprague. 

Behold  !  they  come — those  sainted  forms, 
Unshaken  through  the  strife  of  storms  ; 
Heaven's  winter  cloud  hangs  coldly  down, 
And  earth  puts  on  its  rudest  frown  ; 
But  colder,  ruder  was  the  hand. 
That  drove  them  from  their  own  fair  land,— 
Their  own  fair  land,  refinement's  chosen  seat. 
Art's  trophied  dwelling,  learning's  green  retreat; 
By  valor  guarded,  and  by  victory  crowned, 
For  all,  but  gentle  charity,  renowned. 

With  streaming  eye,  yet  steadfast  heart. 
Even  from  that  land  they  dared  to  part, 

And  burst  each  tender  tie ; 
Haunts,  where  their  sunny  youth  was  passed, 
Homes,  where  they  fondly  hoped  at  last. 

In  peaceful  age,  to  die ; 
Friends,  kindred,  comfort,  all  they  spurned — 

Their  fathers'  hallowed  graves. 
And  to  a  world  of  darkness  turned. 

Beyond  a  world  of  waves. 

****** 
But  not  alone,  not  all  unblessed, 
The  exile  sought  a  place  of  rest ; 
One  dared  with  him  to  burst  the  knot, 
That  bound  her  to  her  native  spot ; 
Her  low,  sweet  voice  in  comfort  spoke. 
As  round  their  bark  the  billows  broke ; 
She,  through  the  midnight  watch,  was  there, 
With  him  to  bend  her  knees  in  prayer ; 
She  trod  the  shore  with  girded  heart. 
Through  good  and  ill  to  claim  her  part ; 
In  life,  in  death,  with  him  to  seal 
Her  kindred  love,  her  kindred  zeal. 


r 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.         3^9 


They  come — that  coming  who  shall  tell  1 
The  eye  may  weep,  the  heart  may  swell, 
But  the  poor  tongue  in  vain  essays 
A  fitting  note  for  them  to  raise. 
We  hear  the  after-shout,  that  rings 
For  them  who  smote  the  power  of  kings — 
The  swelling  triumph  all  would  share ; 
But  who  the  dark  defeat  would  dare, 
And  boldly  meet  the  wrath  and  wo, 
That  wait  the  unsuccessful  blow  ? 

It  were  an  envied  fate,  we  deem, 

To  live  a  land's  recorded  theme. 
When  we  are  in  the  tomb  : 

We,  too,  might  yield  the  joys  of  home. 

And  waves  of  winter  darkness  roam, 
And  tread  a  shore  of  gloom, — 

Knew  we,  those  waves,  through  coming  time, 

Should  roll  our  names  to  every  clime ; 

Felt  we,  that  millions  on  that  shore 

Should  stand,  our  memory  to  adore  : 

But  no  glad  vision  burst  in  light 

Upon  the  pilgrims'  aching  sight ; 

Their  hearts  no  proud  hereafter  swelled  ; 

Deep  shadows  vailed  the  way  they  held  ; 
The  yell  of  vengeance  was  their  trump  of  fame, 
Their  monument,  a  grave  without  a  name. 

Yet,  strong  in  weakness,  there  they  stand, 

On  yonder  ice-bound  rock, 
Stern  and  resolved,  that  faithful  band. 

To  meet  fate's  rudest  shock. 
Though  anguish  rends  the  father's  breast, 
For  them,  his  dearest  and  his  best. 

With  him  the  waste  who  trod — 
Though  tears,  that  freeze,  the  mother  sheds 
Upon  her  children's  houseless  heads — 

The  Christian  turns  to  God ! 


220  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

In  grateful  adoration  now, 

Upon  the  barren  sands  they  bow. 

What  tongue  of  joy  e'er  woke  such  prayer, 

As  bursts  in  desolation  there  1 

What  arm  of  strength  e'er  wrought  such  power, 

As  waits  to  crown  that  feeble  hour? 
There  into  life  an  infant  empire  springs ! 

There  falls  the  iron  from  the  soul ; 

There  liberty's  young  accents  roll 
Up  to  the  King  of  kings ! 

To  fair  creation's  farthest  bound, 

That  thrilling  summons  yet  shall  sound  ; 

The  dreaming  nations  shall  awake 
And  to  their  centre  earth's  old  kingdoms  shake. 
Pontiff  and  prince,  your  sway 
Must  crumble  from  that  day  ; 

Before  the  loftier  throne  of  Heaven, 

The  hand  is  raised,  the  pledge  is  given — 
One  monarch  to  obey,  one  creed  to  own, — 
That  monarch,  God, — that  creed,  his  word  alone. 

Spread  out  earth's  holiest  records  here, 
Of  days  and  deeds  to  reverence  dear ; 
A  zeal  like  this  what  pious  legends  tell? 
On  kingdoms  built 
In  blood  and  guilt. 
The  worshippers  of  vulgar  triumph  dwell ; 
But  what  exploit  with  theirs  shall  page, 

Who  rose  to  bless  their  kind, — 
Who  left  their  nation  and  their  age, 
Man's  spirit  to  unbind  ? 
Who  boundless  seas  passed  o'er. 
And  boldly  met,  in  every  path, 
Famine,  and  frost,  and  heathen  wrath, 
To  dedicate  a  shore, 
Where  piety's  meek  train  might  breathe  their  vow. 
And  seek  their  Maker  with  an  unshamed  brow ; 
Where  liberty's  glad  race  might  proudly  come, 
And  set  up  there  an  everlasting  home  ? 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  223 

LESSON  XCV. 
Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. — Mrs.  Hemans. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky. 

Their  giant  branches  tost ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came, — 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums. 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear; 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom, 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang. 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea ; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared— 

This  was  their  welcome  home ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair, 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band  : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 

Away  from  their  childhood's  lana 
19* 


222  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? — 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  1 
The  wealth  of  seas  ?  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine. 

Ay,  call  it  holy  gjound, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod : 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found- 
Freedom  to  worship  God ! 


LESSON  XCVL 

Hymn  for  the  second  Centeimial  Celebration  of  the  Settlement 
of  Charlestown,  Mass. — Pierpont. 

Two  HUNDRED  YEARS  ! — two  hundred  years ! — 
How  much  of  human  power  and  pride. 

What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears, 
Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide ! — 

The  red  man,  at  his  horrid  rite. 

Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon. 
His  bark  canoe,  its  track  of  light 

Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon, — 

His  dance,  his  yell,  his  council-fire,  - 

The  altar  where  his  victim  lay. 
His  death-song,  and  his  funeral  pyre, — 

That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away. 

And  that  pale  pilgrim  band  is  gone. 

That,  on  this  shore,  with  trembling  trod 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  God 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  223 

And  war — that,  since,  o'er  ocean  came. 

And  thundered  loud  from  yonder  hill, 
And  wrapped  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame, 

To  blast  that  ark — its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 

That  live  in  story  and  in  song. 
Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years, 

Has  raised,  and  shown,  and  swept  along. 

'Tis  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes — 

This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old : 
'Tis  like  the  moon  when  morning  breaks, 

'Tis  like  a  tale  round  watch-fires  told. 

Then  what  are  .we  ! — then  what  are  we ! 

Yes,  when  two  hundred  years  have  rolled 
O'er  our  green  graves,  our  names  shall  be 

A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that's  told. 

God  of  our  fathers, — in  whose  sight 

The  thousand  years,  that  sweep  away 
Man,  and  the  traces  of  his  might, 

Are  but  the  break  and  close  of  day, — 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime, 

That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee. 
Which  makes  thy  children,  in  all  time, 

To  share  thine  own  eternity. 


LESSON   XCVII. 
The  Western  World. — Bryant. 

Late,  from  this  western  shore,  that  morning  chased 
The  deep  and  ancient  night,  that  threw  its  shrouj 

O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,  the  beautiful  waste. 
Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter  up  of  proud, 


224  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Sky-mingling  mountains,  that  o'erlook  the  cloud. 
Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  brightness  rear, 

Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts  were  loud 
Amid  the  forest ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf  yelled  near. 

And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  bright  blue  bay 

Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 
And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 

Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  of  him, 

And,  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 
Lifts  the  white  throng  of  sails,  that  bear  or  bring 

The  commerce  of  the  world ; — with  tawny  limb, 
And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening. 
The  savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the  wing. 

Then,  all  this  joyful  paradise  around. 

And  all  the  broad  and  boundless  mainland,  lay 

Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mound  and  vale,  where  never  summer  ray 
Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 

Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild ; 
Yet  many  a  sheltered  glade,  with  blossoms  gay, 

Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within  the  shaggy  arms  of  that  dark  forest  smiled. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 

Spread  its  blue  sheet,  that  flashed  with  many  an  oar. 

Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from  the  brake. 
And  the  deer  drank  :  as  the  light  gale  flew  o'er. 
The  twinkling  maize-field  rustled  on  the  shore ; 

And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and  fair, 
A  look  of  glad  and  innocent  beauty  wore, 

And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive  there — 

Not  unavenged  :  the  foeman,  from  the  wood. 
Beheld  the  deed,  and,  when  the  midnight  shade 

Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood : 

All  died — the  wailing  babe — the  shrieking  maid — 


YOUNG   LADIES'   CLASS   BOOK.  035 

And  in  t}\e  flood  of  fire,  that  scathed  the  glade, 
The  roofs  went  down  ;  but  deep  the  silence  grew, 
When  on  the  dewy  woods  the  day-beam  played : 
No  more  the  cabin  smokes  rose  wreathed  and  blue, 
And  ever,  by  their  lake,  lay  moored  the  light  canoe. 

Look  now  abroad  :  another  race  has  filled 

These  populous  borders  ;  wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  tilled  ; 

The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads  ; 

Streams  numberless,  that  many  a  fountain  feeds. 
Shine,  disembowered,  and  give  to  sun  and  breeze 

Their  virgin  waters ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western  seas 
Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame,  among  the  autumnal  trees. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 

Throws  its  last  fetters  off";  and  who  shall  place 
A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 

Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race. 

Far,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite  space, 
Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light 

Into  the  depths  of  ages  :  we  may  trace, 
Afar,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates. 

And  writhes  in  shackles  ;  strong  the  arms  that  chain 
To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states. 

She,  too,  is  strong,  and  might  not  chafe  in  vain 

Against  them,  but  shake  off  the  vampyre  train 
That  batten  on  her  blood,  and  break  their  net. 

Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days,  and  gain 
The  meed  of  worthier  deeds  ;  the  moment  set 
To  rescue,  and  raise  up,  draws  near — but  is  not  yet. 

But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall. 
But  with  thy  children :  thy  maternal  care, 

Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on  all 
These  are  thy  fetters :  seas  and  stormy  air 


226  YOUNG   LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons,  that  guard  thee  well. 

Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies  :  who  shall  then  declare 
The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall  dwell  ? 


LESSON  XCVIII. 

Effects  of  the  Institutions  and  Example  of  the  first  Settlers 
of  New  England. — CIuincy. 

If  we  cast  our  eyes  on  the  cities  and  great  towns  of  New 
England,  with  what  wonder  should  we  behold,  did  not  fa- 
miliarity render  the  phenomenon  almost  unnoticed,  men, 
combined  in  great  multitudes,  possessing  freedom  and  the 
consciousness  of  strength, — the  comparative  physical  power 
of  the  ruler  less  than  that  of  a  cobweb  across  a  lion's  path, 
— yet  orderly,  obedient,  and  respectful  to  authority  ;  a  people, 
but  no  populace;  every  class  in  reality  existing,  which  the 
general  law  of  society  acknowledges,  except  one, — and  this 
exception  characterizing  the  whole  country !  The  soil  of 
New  England  is  trodden  by  no  slave.  In  our  streets,  in  our 
assemblies,  in  the  halls  of  election  and  legislation,  men  of 
every  rank  and  condition  meet,  and  unite  or  divide  on  other 
principles,  and  are  actuated  by  other  motives,  than  those 
growing  out  of  such  distinctions.  The  fears  and  jealousies, 
which,  in  other  countries,  separate  classes  of  men,  and  make 
them  hostile  to  each  other,  have  here  no  influence,  or  a  very 
limited  one. 

Each  individual,  of  whatever  condition,  has  the  conscious- 
ness of  living  under  known  laws,  which  secure  equal  rights, 
and  guaranty  to  each  whatever  portion  of  the  goods  of  life, 
be  it  great  or  small,  chance,  or  talent,  or  industry  may  have 
bestowed.  All  perceive  that  the  honors  and  rewards  of  so- 
ciety, are  open  equally  to  the  fair  competition  of  all ;  that  the 
distinctions  of  wealth,  or  of  power,  are  not  fixed  in  families ; 
that  whatever  of  this  nature  exists  to-day,  may  be  changed 
to-morrow,  or,  in  a  coming  generation,  be  absolutely  reversed. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  227 

Common  principles,  interests,  hopes  and  affections,  are  the 
result  of  universal  education.  Such  are  the  consequences 
of  the  equality  of  rights,  and  of  the  provisions  for  the  general 
diffusion  of  knowledge  and  the  distribution  of  intestate 
estates,  established  by  the  laws  framed  by  the  earliest  emi- 
grants to  New  England. 

If,  from  our  cities,  we  turn  to  survey  the  vvide  expanse  of 
the  interior,  how  do  the  effects  of  the  institutions  and  exam- 
ple of  our  early  ancestors  appear,  in  all  the  local  comfort  and 
accommodation,  which  mark  the  general  condition  of  the 
whole  country ; — unobtrusive,  indeed,  but  substantial ;  in 
nothing  splendid,  but  in  every  thing  sufficient  and  satisfacto- 
ry. Indications  of  active  talent  and  practical  energy,  exist 
every  where.  With  a  soil  comparatively  little  luxuriant,  and 
in  great  proportion  either  rock,  or  hill,  or  sand,  the  skill  and 
industry  of  man  are  seen  triumphing  over  the  obstacles  of 
nature ;  making  the  rock  the  guardian  of  the  field  ;  moulding 
the  granite,  as  though  it  were  clay ;  leading  cultivation  to 
the  hill-top,  and  spreading  over  the  arid  plain  hitherto  un- 
known and  unanticipated  harvests. 

The  lofty  mansion  of  the  prosperous  adjoins  the  lowly 
dwelling  of  the  husbandman ;  their  respective  inmates  are  in 
the  daily  interchange  of  civility,  sympathy  and  respect. 
Enterprise  and  skill,  which  once  held  chief  affinity  with  the 
ocean  or  the  sea-board,  now  begin  to  delight  the  interior, 
haunting  our  rivers,  w^ere  the  music  of  the  waterfall,  with 
powers  more  attractive  than  those  of  the  fabled  harp  of  Or- 
pheus, collects  around  it  intellectual  man  and  material  nature. 
Towns  and  cities,  civilized  and  happy  communities,  rise,  like 
exhalations,  on  rficks  and  in  forests,  till  the  deep  and  far-re- 
sounding voice  of  the  neighboring  torrent  is  itself  lost  and 
unheard,  amid  the  predominating  noise  of  successful  and 
rejoicing  labor. 

What  lessons  has  New  England,  in  every  period  of  her 
history,  given  to  the  world  !  What  lessons  do  her  condition 
and  example  still  give  !  How  unprecedented,  yet  how  prac- 
tical!  How  simple,  yet  how  powerful!  She  has  proved, 
that  all  the  variety  of  Christian  sects  may  live  together  in 
harmony,  under  a  government,  which  allows  equal  privileges 
to  all, — exclusive  preeminence  to  none.      She  has  proved, 


228  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

that  ignorance  among  the  muhitude  is  not  necessary  to  order, 
but  that  the  surest  basis  of  perfect  order  is  the  information 
of  the  people.  She  has  proved  the  old  maxim,  that  *'  No  gov- 
ernment, except  a  despotism,  vi^ith  a  standing  army,  can  sub- 
sist where  the  people  have  arms,"  is  false.     *     *     *     * 

Such  are  the  true  glories  of  the  institutions  of  our  fathers ; 
such  the  natural  fruits  of  that  patience  in  toil,  that  frugality 
of  disposition,  that  temperance  of  habit,  that  general  diffusion 
of  knowledge,  and  that  sense  of  religious  responsibility,  in- 
culcated by  the  precepts,  and  exhibited  in  the  example,  of 
every  generation  of  our  ancestors. 


LESSON  XCIX. 

Neio  England. — Mrs.  Child. 

I  NEVER  view  the  thriving  villages  of  Nev/  England,  which 
speak  so  forcibly  to  the  heart,  of  happiness  and  prosperity, 
without  feeling  a  glow  of  national  pride,  as  I  say,  "This  is 
my  own,  my  native  land."  A  long  train  of  associations  is 
connected  with  her  picturesque  rivers,  as  they  repose  in  their 
peaceful  loveliness, — the  broad  and  sparkling  mirror  of  the 
heavens, — and  with  the  cultivated  environs  of  her  busy  cities, 
which  seem  every  where  blushing  into  a  perfect  Eden  of  fruit 
and  flowers.  The  remembrance  of  what  we  have  been, 
comes  rushing  on  the  heart  in  powerful  and  happy  contrast. 

In  most  nations,  the  path  of  antiquity  is  shrouded  in  dark- 
ness, rendered  more  visible  by  the  wild,  ^"antastic  light  of 
fable ;  but  with  us,  the  vista  of  time  is  luminous  to  its  re- 
motest point.  Each  succeeding  year  has  left  its  footsteps 
distinct  upon  the  soil,  and  the  cold  dew  of  our  chilling  dawn 
is  still  visible  beneath  the  mid-day  sun.  Two  centuries,  only, 
have  elapsed,  since  our  most  beautiful  villages  reposed  in  the 
undisturbed  grandeur  of  nature ;  when  the  scenes  now  ren- 
dered classic  by  literary  associations,  or  resounding  with  the 
din  of  commerce,  echoed  nought  but  the  sound  of  the  hunter, 
or  the  fleet  tread  of  the  wild  deer.  God  was  here  in  his 
holy  temple,  and  the  whole  earth  kept  silence  before  him ! 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  229 

But  the  voice  of  prayer  was  soon  to  be  heard  in  the  desert. 
The  sun,  which,  for  ages  beyond  the  memory  of  man,  had 
gazed  on  the  strange,  fearful  worship  of  the  Great  Spirit  of 
the  wilderness,  was  soon  to  shed  its  splendor  upon  the  altars 
of  the  living  God.  That  light,  which  had  arisen  amid  the 
darkness  of  Europe,  stretched  its  long  luminous  track  across 
the  Atlantic,  till  the  summits  of  the  western  world  became 
tinged  with  its  brightness.  During  many  long,  long  ages  of 
gloom  and  corruption,  it  seemed  as  if  the  pure  flame  of 
religion  was  every  where  quenched  in  blood ; — but  the  watch- 
ful vestal  had  kept  the  sacred  flame  still  burning  deeply  and 
fervently.  Men,  stern  and  unyielding,  brought  it  hither  in 
their  own  bosom,  and,  amid  desolation  and  poverty,  they  kin- 
dled it  on  the  shrine  of  Jehovah. 

In  this  enlightened  and  liberal  age,  it  is  perhaps  too  fash- 
ionable to  look  back  upon  those  early  sufferers  in  the  cause 
of  the  reformation,  as  a  band  of  dark,  discontented  bigots. 
Without  doubt,  there  were  many  broad,  deep  shadows  in 
their  characters ;  but  there  was,  likewise,  bold  and  powerful 
light.  The  peculiarities  of  their  situation  occasioned  most 
of  their  faults,  and  atoned  for  them.  They  were  struck  off 
from  a  learned,  opulent  and  powerful  nation,  under  circum- 
stances which  goaded  and  lacerated  them  almost  to  ferocity ; 
— and  no  wonder  that  men,  who  fled  from  oppression  in  their 
own  country,  to  all  the  hardships  of  a  remote  and  dreary 
province,  should  have  exhibited  a  deep  mixture  of  exclusive, 
bitter  and  morose  passions. 


LESSON  C. 

Conclusion  of  a  Discourse,  delivered  Sept.   18th,   1828,  in 
Commemoration  of  the  first  Settlement  of  Salem,  Mass. — 
Story, 

When  we  reflect  on  what  has  been,  and  is,  how  is  it  pos- 
sible not  to  feel  a  profound  sense  of  the  responsibleness  of 
this  republic  to  all  future  ages !     What  vast  motives  press 
20 


230  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

upon  us  for  lofty  efforts!  What  brilliant  prospects  invite 
our  enthusiasm !  What  solemn  warnings  at  once  demand 
our  vigilance,  and  moderate  our  confidence  ! 

The  old  world  has  already  revealed  to  us,  in  its  unsealed 
I  books,  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  its  own  marvellous 
struggles  in  the  cause  of  liberty.  Greece,  lovely  Greece, 
"  the  land  of  scholars  and  the  nurse  of  arms,"  where  sister 
republics  in  fair  processions  chanted  the  praises  of  liberty 
and  the  gods, — where  and  what  is  she  1  For  two  thousand 
years,  the  oppressor  has  bound  her  to  the  earth.  Her  arts 
are  no  more.  The  last  sad  relics  of  her  temples  are  but 
the  barracks  of  a  ruthless  soldiery ;  the  fragments  of  her 
columns  and  her  palaces  are  in  the  dust,  yet  beautiful  in  ruin. 
She  fell  not  when  the  mighty  were  upon  her.  Her  sons 
were  united  at  Thermopylae  and  Marathon ;  and  the  tide  of 
her  triumph  rolled  back  upon  the  Hellespont.  She  was  con- 
quered by  her  own  factions.  She  fell  by  the  hands  of  her 
own  people.  The  man  of  Macedonia  did  not  the  work  of 
destruction.  It  was  already  done  by  her  own  corruptions, 
banishments  and  dissensions. 

Rome,  republican  Rome,  whose  eagles  glanced  in  the  rising 
and  setting  sun,— where  and  what  is  she  ?  The  eternal  city 
yet  remains,  proud  even  in  her  desolation,  noble  in  her  de- 
cline, venerable  in  the  majesty  of  religion,  and  calm  as  in 
the  composure  of  death.  The' malaria  has  but  travelled  in 
the  paths  worn  by  her  destroyers.  More  than  eighteen  cen- 
turies have  mourned  over  the  loss  of  her  empire.  A  mortal 
disease  was  upon  her  vitals,  before  CsBsar  had  crossed  the 
Rubicon.  The  Goths,  and  Vandals,  and  Huns,  the  swarms 
of  the  North,  completed  only  what  was  already  begun  at 
home.  Romans  betrayed  Rome.  The  legions  were  bought 
and  sold,  but  the  people  offered  the  tribute  money. 

And  where  are  the  republics  of  modern  times,  which  clus- 
tered round  immortal  Italy  1  Venice  and  Genoa  exist  but  in 
name.  The  Alps,  indeed,  look  down  upon  the  brave  and 
peaceful  Swiss  in  their  native  fastnesses ;  but  the  guarantee 
of  their  freedom  is  in  their  weakness,  and  not  in  their 
strength.  The  mountains  are  not  easily  crossed,  and  the 
valleys  are  not  easily  retained.  When  the  invader  comes,  he 
moves  like  an"  avalanche,  carrying  destruction  in  his  path. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  281 

The  peasantry  sinks  before  him.  The  country  is  too  poor  for 
plunder,  and  too  rough  for  valuable  conquest.  Nature  pre- 
sents her  eternal  barriers,  on  every  side,  to  check  the  wanton- 
ness of  ambition ;  and  Switzerland  remains  with  her  simple 
institutions,  a  military  road  to  fairer  climates,  scarcely  worth 
a  permanent  possession,  and  protected  by  the  jealousy  of  her 
neighbors. 

We  stand  the  latest,  and,  if  we  fail,  probably  the  last, 
experiment  of  self-government  by  the  people.  We  have 
begun  it  under  circumstances  of  the  most  auspicious  nature. 
We  are  in  the  vigor  of  youth.  Our  growth  has  never  been 
checked  by  the  oppressions  of  tyranny.  Our  constitutions 
have  never  been  enfeebled  by  the  vices  or  luxuries  of  the  old 
world.  Such  as  we  are,  we  have  been  from  the  beginning, 
simple,  hardy,  intelligent,  accustomed  to  self-government  and 
self-respect.  The  Atlantic  rolls  between  us  and  any  formi- 
dable foe. 

Within  our  own  territory,  stretching  through  many  degrees 
of  latitude  and  longitude,  we  have  the  choice  of  many  prod- 
ucts, and  many  means  of  independence.  The  government 
is  mild.  The  press  is  free.  Religion  is  free.  Knowledge 
reaches,  or  may  reach,  every  home.  What  fairer  prospect 
of  success  could  be  presented  1  What  means  more  adequate 
to  accomplish  the  sublime  end  ?  What  more  is  necessary, 
than  for  the  people  to  preserve  what  they  themselves  have 
created  1 

Already  has  the  age  caught  the  spirit  of  our  institutions. 
It  has  already  ascended  the  Andes,  and  snuffed  the  breezes 
of  both  oceans.  It  has  infused  itself  into  the  life-blood  of 
Europe,  and  warmed  the  sunny  plains  of  France,  and  the 
low  lands  of  Holland.  It  has  touched  the  philosophy  of 
Germany  and  the  North,  and,  moving  onward  to  the  South, 
has  opened  to  Greece  the  lei^ons  of  her  better  days. 

Can  it  be  that  America,  under  such  circumstances,  can 
betray  herself!  that  she  is  to  be  added  to  the  catalogue  of 
republics,  the  inscription  upon  whose  ruins  is,  *'  They  were, 
but  they  are  not !"  Forbid  it,  my  countrymen ;  forbid  it. 
Heaven. 

I  call  upon  you,  fathers,  by  the  shades  of  your  ancestors. 


232  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

by  the  dear  ashes  which  repose  in  this  precious  soil,  by  all 
you  are,  and  all  you  hope  to  be ;  resist  every  project  of  dis- 
union, resist  every  encroachment  upon  your  liberties,  resist 
every  attempt  to  fetter  your  consciences,  or  smother  your 
public  schools,  or  extinguish  your  system  of  public  in- 
struction. 

I  call  upon  you,  mothers,  by  that  which  never  fails  in 
woman,  the  love  of  your  offspring ;  teach  them,  as  they 
climb  your  knees,  or  lean  on  your  bosoms,  the  blessings  of 
liberty.  Swear  them  at  the  altar,  as  with  their  baptismal 
vows,  to  be  true  to  their  country,  and  never  to  forget  or  for- 
sake her.  \ 

I  call  upon  you,  young  men,  to  remember  whose  sons  you 
are,  whose  inheritance  you  possess.  Life  can  never  be  too 
short,  which  brings  nothing  but  disgrace  and  oppression. 
Death  never  comes  too  soon,  if  necessary  in  defence  of 
the  liberties  of  your  country. 

I  call  upon  you,  old  men,  for  your  counsels,  and  your 
prayers,  and  your  benedictions.  May  not  your  gray  hairs  go 
down  in  sorrow  to  the  grave,  with  the  recollection,  that  you 
have  lived  in  vain.  May  not  your  last  sun  sink  in  the  west 
upon  a  nation  of  slaves. 

No — I  read  in  the  destiny  of  my  country  far  better  hopes, 
far  brighter  visions.  We,'Who  are  now  assembled  here,  must 
soon  be  gathered  to  the  congregation  of  other  days.  The  time 
of  our  departure  is  at  hand,  to  make  way  for  our  children  upon 
the  theatre  of  life.  May  God  speed  them  and  theirs.  May 
he,  who,  at  the  distance  of  another  century,  shall  stand  here, 
to  celebrate  this  day,  still  look  round  upon  a  free,  happy  and 
virtuous  people.  May  he  have  reason  to  exult  as  we  do. 
May  he,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  truth,  as  well  as  of  poetry, 
exclaim  that  here  is  still  his  country, 

"  Zealous,  yet  modest ;  innocent,  though  free  j 
Patient  of  toil  j  serene  amidst  alarms  j 
Inflexible  in  faith ;  invincible  in  arms." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  333 

LESSON  CI. 

The  Death  of  Moses. — John  S.  Taylor. 

On  Nebo's  hill  the  patriarch  stood, 

Who  led  the  pilgrim  bands 
Of  Israel  through  the  foaming  waves, 

And  o'er  the  desert  sands. 

How  beauteous  is  the  scene  that  spreads 

Before  him  far  and  wide, 
Beyond  the  fair  and  fated  bourn 

Of  Jordan's  glorious  tide  ! 

Stretched  forth  in  varied  loveliness. 

The  land  of  promise  smiled, 
Like  Eden  in  its  wondrous  bloom, 

Magnificent  and  wild. 

He  looked  o'er  Gilead's  pleasant  land, 

A  land  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
And  verdure  of  the  softest  green, 

That  drinks  the  summer  showers. 

He  saw  fair  Ephraim's  fertile  fields 

Laugh  with  their  golden  store, 
And,  far  beyond,  the  deep  blue  wave 

Bathed  Judah's  lovely  shore. 

The  southern  landscape  led  his  glance 

O'er  plains  and  valleys  wide, 
And  hills  with  spreading  cedars  crowned. 

And  cities  in  their  pride. 

There  Zoar's  walls  are  dimly  seen, 

And  Jericho's  far  towers 
Gleam  through  the  morning's  purple  mist, 

Among  their  palmy  bowers. 
20  * 


234  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Is  it  the  sun,  the  morning  sun, 
That  shines  so  full  and  bright,  - 

Pouring  on  Nebo's  lonely  hill 
A  flood  of  living  light  ? 

No — dim  and  earthly  is  the  glow 
Of  morning's  loveliest  ray, 
,  And  dull  the  cloudless  beams  of  noon, 

To  that  celestial  day. 

Is  it  an  angel's  voice  that  breathes 
Divme  enchantment  there. 

As  floating  on  his  viewless  wings 
He  charms  the  balmy  air  1 

No — 'tis  a  greater,  holier  power. 
That  makes  the  scene  rejoice  ; 

Thy  glory,  God,  is  in  that  light, — 
Thy  spirit,  in  that  voice ! 

The  patriarch  hears,  and  lowly  bends, 

Adoring  his  high  will. 
Who  spoke  in  lightnings  from  the  clouds 

Of  Sinai's  awful  hill. 

Now  flash  his  eyes  with  brighter  fires 
E'er  yet  their  light  depart ; 

And  thus  the  voice  of  prophecy 
Speaks  to  his  trembling  heart : — 

"  The  land,  which  I  have  sworn  to  bless 
To  Abraham's  chosen  race. 

Thine  eyes  behold  ;  but  not  for  thee 
That  earthly  resting-place." 

With  soul  of  faith  the  patriarch  heard 

The  awful  words,  and  lay 
A  time  entranced,  until  that  voice 

In  music  died  away  j— 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  335 

Then  raised  his  head, — one  look  he  gave 

Towards  Jordan's  palmy  shore  ; 
Fixed  was  that  look,  and  glazed  that  eye, 

Which  turned  to  earth  no  more. 

A  beauteous  glow  was  on  his  face — 

Death  flung  not  there  its  gloom  ; 
On  Nebo's  hill  the  patriarch  found 

His  glory  and  his  doom. 

He  sleeps  in  Moab's  silent  vale, 

Beneath  the  dewy  sod, 
Without  a  stone  to  mark  his  grave, 

Who  led  the  hosts  of  God. 

Let  marble  o'er  earth's  conquerors  rise, 

And  mock  the  mouldering  grave  ; 
His  monument  is  that  blest  Book, 

Which  opens  but  to  save. 


LESSON   CII. 

Sonnet  on  the  Entrance  of  the  American  Woods. — Galt. 

What  solemn  spirit  doth  inhabit  here ! 

What  sacred  oracle  hath  here  a  home ! 
What  dread  unknown  thrills  through  the  heart  in  fear, 

And  moves  to  worship  in  this  forest-dome! 
Ye  storied  fanes,  in  whose  recesses  dim 

The  mitred  priesthood  hath  their  altars  built. 
Aisles  old  and  awful,  where  the  choral  hymn 

Bears  the  rapt  soul  beyond  the  sphere  of  guilt, 
Stoop  your  proud  arches,  and  your  columns  bend, 

Your  tombs  and  monumental  trophies  hide ; 
The  high,  umbrageous  vaults,  that  here  extend, 

Mock  the  brief  limits  of  your  sculptured  pride. 
Stranger  forlorn,  by  fortune  hither  cast, 
Dar'st  thou  the  genius  brave, — the  ancient  and  the  vast? 


236  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  cm. 

Marco  Bozzaris.* — Halleck. 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour, 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power. 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring; 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band. 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood,    ^ 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Platsea's  day  ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires,  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke — 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
'*  To  arms  !  they  come !  the  Greek  !  the  Greek  !'* 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke. 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 

*  Bozzaris  was  the  Epaminondas  of  Modern  Greece.  He  fell  in  an  attack 
upon  the  Turkish  camp,  at  Laspi,  the  site  of  the  ancient  Platsea,  August  20, 
1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of  victory.  His  last  words  were — "  To 
die  for  liberty,  is  a  pleasure,  and  not  a  pain." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  337 

As  lightnings  from  the  mountain  cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"  Strike  !  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike  !  for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike  !  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  j 

God — and  your  native  land  !" 

They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose. 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death  1 

Come  to  the  mother  when  she  feels. 
For  the  first  time,  her  first  bom's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals, 
That  close  the  pestilence,  are  broke. 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 
Come  in  Consumption's  ghastly  form. 
The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean  storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm. 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine — 
And  thou  art  terrible  :  the  tear. 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier. 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free. 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 


238  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Bozzaris,  with  the  storied  brave, 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


LESSON  CIV. 

Reflections  of  a  Belle.-^N.  E.  Weekly  Review. 

I'm  weary  of  the  crowded  ball ;  I'm  weary  of  the  mirth. 
Which  never  lifts  itself  above  the  grosser  things  of  earth ; 
I'm  weary  of  the  flatterer's  tone  :  its  music  is  no  more. 
And  eye  and  lip  may  answer  not  its  meaning  as  before ; 
I'm  weary  of  the  heartless  throng — of  being  deemed  as  one. 
Whose  spirit  kindles  only  in  the  blaze  of  fashion's  sun. 

I  speak  in  very  bitterness,  for  I  have  deeply  felt 
The  mockery  of  the  hollow  shrine  at  which  my  spirit  knelt  ; 
Mine  is  the  requiem  of  years,  in  reckless  folly  passed. 
The  wail  above  departed  hopes,  on  a  frail  venture  cast, 
The  vain  regret,  that  steals  above  the  wreck  of  squandered 

hours. 
Like  the  sighing  of  the  autumn  wind  above  the  faded  flowers. 

Oh !  it  is  worse  than  mockery  to  list  the  flatterer's  tone. 
To  lend  a  ready  ear  to  thoughts  the  cheek  must  blush  to  own, — 
To  hear  the  red  lip  whispered  of,  and  the  flowing  curl  and  eye 
Made  constant  themes  of  eulogy,  extravagant  and  high, — 
And  the  charm  of  person  worshipped,  in  a  homage  offered  not 
To  the  perfect  charm  of  virtue,  and  the  majesty  of  thought. 

Away !  I  will  not  fetter  thus  the  spirit  God  hath  given. 
Nor  stoop  the  pinion  back  to  earth  that  beareth  up  to  heaven ; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  239 

I  will  not  bow  a  tameless  heart  to  fashion's  iron  rule, 
Nor  welcome,  with  a  smile,  alike  the  gifted  and  the  fool  : 
No — let  the  throng  pass  coldly  on  ;  a  treasured  few  may  find 
The  charm  of  person  doubly  dear  beneath  the  light  of  mind 


LESSON   CV. 

Childhood. — N.  M.  Magazine. 

He  must  be  incorrigibly  unamiable,  who  is  not  a  little  im- 
proved by  becoming  a  father.  Some  there  are,  however, 
who  know  not  how  to  appreciate  the  blessings  with  which 
Providence  has  filled  their  quiver ;  who  receive  with  coldness 
a  son's  greeting  or  a  daughter's  kiss ;  who  have  principle 
enough  properly  to  feed,  and  clothe,  and  educate  their  chil- 
dren, to  labor  for  their  support  and  provision,  but  possess  not 
the  affection  which  turns  duty  into  delight ;  who  are  sur- 
rounded with  blossoms,  but  know  not  the  art  of  extracting 
their  exquisite  sweets.  How  different  is  the  effect  of  true 
parental  love,  where  nature,  duty,  habit  and  feeling  combine 
to  constitute  an  aflTection  the  purest,  the  deepest  and  the 
strongest,  the  most  enduring,  the  least  exacting  of  any  of 
which  the  human  heart  is  capable  ! 

The  selfish  bachelor  may  shudder,  when  he  thinks  of  the 
consequences  of  a  family  ;  he  may  picture  to  himself  littered 
rooms  and  injured  furniture,  imagine  the  noise  and  confusion, 
the  expense  and  the  cares,  from  which  he  is  luckily  free; 
hug  himself  in  his  solitude,  and  pity  his  unfortunate  neighbor, 
who  has  half  a  dozen  squalling  children  to  torment  and  im- 
poverish him. 

The  unfortunate  neighbor,  however,  returns  the  compli- 
ment with  interest,  sighs  over  the  loneliness  of  the  wealthy 
bachelor,  and  can  never  see,  without  feelings  of  regret, 
rooms  where  no  stray  plaything  tells  of  the  occasional 
presence  of  a  child,  gardens  where  no  tiny  foot-mark  reminds 
him  of  his  treasures  at  home.  He  has  listened  to  his  heart, 
and  learned  from  it  a  precious  secret ;  he  knows  how  to 
convert  noise  into  harmony,  expense  into  self-gratification. 


240  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

and  trouble  into  amusement;  and  he  reaps,  in  one  day's  in- 
tercourse with  his  family,  a  harvest  of  love  and  enjoyment 
rich  enough  to  repay  years  of  toil  and  care.  He  listens 
eagerly  on  his  threshold  for  the  boisterous  greeting  he  is  sure 
to  receive,  feels  refreshed  by  the  mere  pattering  sound  of  the 
darlings'  feet,  as  they  hurry  to  receive  his  kiss,  and  cures,  by 
a  noisy  game  at  romps,  the  weariness  and  head-ache  which 
he  gained  in  his  intercourse  with  men. 

But  it  is  not  only  to  their  parents  and  near  connexions,  that 
children  are  interesting  and  delightful ;  they  are  general  fa- 
vorites, and  their  caresses  are  slighted  by  none  but  the 
strange,  the  affected,  or  the  morose.  I  have,  indeed,  heard 
a  fine  lady  declare  that  she  preferred  a  puppy  or  a  kitten  to 
a  child ;  and  I  wondered  she  had  not  sense  enough  to  conceal 
her  want  of  womanly  feeling :  and  I  know  another  fair  sim- 
pleton, who  considers  it  beneath  her  to  notice  those  from 
whom  no  intellectual  improvement  can  be  derived,  forgetting 
that  we  have  hearts  to  cultivate  as  well  as  heads.  But  these 
are  extraordinary  exceptions  to  general  rules,  as  uncommon 
and  disgusting  as  a  beard  on  a  lady's  chin,  or  a  pipe  in  her 
mouth. 

Even  men  may  condescend  to  sport  with  children  with- 
out fear  of  contempt;  and  for  those  who  like  to  shelter 
themselves  under  authority,  and  cannot  venture  to  be  wise 
and  happy  their  own  way,  we  have  plenty  of  splendid  exam- 
ples, ancient  and  modern,  living  and  dead,  to  adduce,  which 
may  sanction  a  love  for  these  pigmy  playthings.  Statesmen 
have  romped  with  them,  orators  told  them  stories,  conquerors 
submitted  to  their  blows,  judges,  divines  and  philosophers 
listened  to  their  prattle,  and  joined  in  their  sports. 

Spoiled  children  are,  however,  excepted  from  this  partiali- 
ty ;  every  one  joins  in  visiting  the  faults  of  others  upon  their 
heads,  and  hating  these  unfortunate  victims  of  their  parents' 
folly.  They  must  be  bribed  to  good  behavior,  fike  many  of 
their  elders;  they  insist  upon  fingering  your  watch,  and 
spoiling  what  they  do  not  understand,  like  numbers  of  the 
patrons  of  literature  and  the  arts  ;  they  will  sometimes  cry 
for  the  moon,  as  absurdly  as  Alexander  for  more  worlds ;  and 
when  they  are  angry,  they  have  no  mercy  for  cups  and 
saucers.     They  are  as  unreasonable,  impatient,  selfish,  ex- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  241 

acting  and  whimsical,  as  grown-up  men  and  women,  and 
only  want  the  varnish  of  politeness  and  mask  of  hypocrisy 
to  complete  the  likeness. 

Another  description  of  children,  deservedly  unpopular,  is 
the  over-educated  and  super-excellent,  who  despise  dolls  and 
drums,  and,  ready  only  for  instruction,  have  no  wish  for  a  holi- 
day, no  fancy  for  a  fairy  tale.  They  appear  to  have  a  natural 
taste  for  pedantry  and  precision ;  their  wisdom  never  indulges 
in  a  nap,  at  least  before  company ;  they  have  learned  the 
Pestalozzi  system,  and  weary  you  with  questions ;  they  re- 
quire you  to  prove  every  thing  you  assert,  and  are  always  on 
the  watch  to  detect  you  in  a  verbal  inaccuracy,  or  a  slight 
mistake  in  a  date. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  infinite  pains  taken  to  spoil  na- 
ture's lovely  works,  there  is  a  principle  of  resistance,  which 
allows  of  only  partial  success;  and  numbers  of  sweet  children 
exist,  to  delight,  and  soothe,  and  divert  us,  when  we  are 
wearied  or  fretted  by  grown-up  people,  and  to  justify  all  that 
has  been  said  or  written  of  the  charms  of  childhood.  Per- 
haps only  women,  their  natural  nurses  and  faithful  protec- 
tresses, can  thoroughly  appreciate  the  attractions  of  the  first 
few  months  of  human  existence.  The  recumbent  position, 
the  fragile  limbs,  the  lethargic  tastes,  and  ungrateful  indif- 
ference to  notice,  of  a  very  young  infant,  render  it  uninterest- 
ing to  most  gentlemen,  except  its  father ;  and  he  is  generally 
afraid  to  touch  it,  for  fear  of  breaking  its  neck.  But  even 
in  this  state,  mothers,  grandmothers,  aunts  and  nurses  assure 
you,  that  strong  indications  of  sense  and  genius  may  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  little  animal ;  and  I  have  known  a  clatter  of 
surprise  and  joy  excited  through  a  whole  family,  and  matter 
afforded  for  twenty  long  letters  and  innumerable  animated 
conversations,  by  some  marvellous  demonstration  of  intellect 
in  a  creature  in  long  clothes,  who  could  not  hold  its  head 
straight. 

But  as  soon  as  the  baby  has  acquired  firmness  and  liveliness ; 
as"  soon  as  it  smiles  at  a  familiar  face,  and  stares  at  a  strange 
one ;  as  soon  as  it  employs  its  hands  and  eyes  in  constant  ex- 
peditions of  discovery,  and  crows,  and  leaps,  from  the  excess 
of  animal  contentment, — it  becomes  an  object  of  indefinable 
and  powerful  interest,  to  which  all  the  sympathies  of  our  na- 
21 


242  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

ture  attach  us, — an  object  at  once  of  curiosity  and  tender- 
ness, interesting  as  it  is  in  its  helplessness  and  innocence, 
doubly  interesting  from  its  prospects  and  destiny ;  interesting 
to  a  philosopher,  doubly  interesting  to  a  Christian. 

Who  has  not  occasionally,  when  fondling  an  infant,  felt 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  mystery  which  hangs  over  its 
fate  f  Perhaps  we  hold  in  our  arms  an  angel,  kept  but  for  a 
few  months  from  the  heaven  in  which  it  is  to  spend  the  rest 
of  an  immortal  existence ;  perhaps  we  see  the  germ  of  all 
that  is  hideous  and  hateful  in  our  nature.  Thus  looked 
and  thus  sported,  thus  calmly  slumbered  and  sweetly  smiled, 
the  monsters  of  our  race  in  their  days  of  infancy.  Where 
are  the  marks  to  distinguish  a  Nero  from  a  Trajan,  an  Abel 
from  a  Cain  ?  But  it  is  not  in  this  spirit  that  it  is  either 
wise  or  happy  to  contemplate  any  thing.  Better  is  it — when 
we  behold  the  energy  and  animation  of  young  children, 
their  warm  affections,  their  ready,  unsuspicious  confidence, 
their  wild,  unwearied  glee,  their  mirth  so  easily  excited,  their 
love  so  easily  won — to  enjoy,  unrestrained,  the  pleasantness 
of  life's  morning ;  that  morning  so  bright  and  joyous,  which 
seems  to  "justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,"  and  to  teach  us 
that  Nature  intended  us  to  be  happy,  and  usually  gains  her 
end  till  we  are  old  enough  to  discover  how  we  may  defeat  it. 


LESSON  CVI.  . 

The  same, — concluded. 

Little  girls  are  my  favorites.  Boys,  though  sufficiently  in- 
teresting and  amusing,  are  apt  to  be  infected,  as  soon  as  they 
assume  the  manly  garb,  with  a  little  of  that  masculine  vio- 
lence and  obstinacy,  which,  when  they  grow  up,  they  will  call 
spirit  and  firmness ;  and  they  lose,  earlier  in  life,  that  docility, 
tenderness,  and  ignorance  of  evil,  which  are  their  sisters'  pe- 
culiar charms.  In  all  the  range  of  visible  creation,  there  is 
no  object  to  me  so  attractive  and  delightful,  as  a  lovely,  in- 
telligent, gentle  little  girl  of  eight  or  nine  years  old.  This 
is  the  point  at  which  may  be  witnessed  the  greatest  improve- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  243 

ment  of  intellect  compatible  with  that  lily-like  purity  of 
mind,  to  which  taint  is  incomprehensible,  danger  unsus- 
pected, and  which  wants  not  only  the  vocabulary,  but  the 
very  idea  of  sin. 

Even  the  best  and  purest  of  women  would  shrink  from 
displaying  her  heart  to  our  gaze,  while  lovely  childhood  al- 
lows us  to  read  its  very  thought  and  fancy.  Its  sincerity, 
indeed,  is  occasionally  very  inconvenient ;  and  let  that  person 
be  quite  surq  that  he  has  nothing  remarkably  odd,  ugly  or 
disagreeable  about  his  appearance,  who  ventures  to  ask  a  child 
what  it  thinks  of  him.  Amidst  the  frowns  and  blushes  of 
the  family,  amidst  a  thousand  efforts  to  prevent  or  to  drown 
the  answer,  truth,  in  all  the  horrors  of  nakedness,  will  gen- 
erally appear  in  the  su«-prised  assembly;  and  he  who  has 
hitherto  thought,  in  spite  of  his  mirror,  that  his  eyes  had 
merely  a  slight  and  not  unpleasing  cast,  will  now  learn,  for 
the  first  time,  that  "  every  body  says  he  has  a  terrible  squint." 

I  cannot  approve  of  the  modern  practice  of  dressing  little 
girls  in  exact  accordance  with  the  prevailing  fashion,  with 
scrupulous  imitation  of  their  elders.  When  I  look  at  a  child, 
I  do  not  wish  to  feel  doubtful  whether  it  is  not  an  unfor- 
tunate dwarf,  who  is  standing  before  me,  attired  in  a  costume 
suited  to  its  age.  Extreme  simplicity  of  attire,  and  a  dress 
sacred  to  themselves  only,  are  most  fitted  to  these  "  fresh  fe- 
male buds  f  and  it  vexes  me  to  see  them  disguised  in  the 
fashions  of  the  day,  or  practising  the  graces  and  courtesies 
of  maturer  life.  Will  there  not  be  years  enough,  from  thir- 
teen to  seventy,  for  ornamenting  or  disfiguring  the  person  at 
the  fiat  of  French  milliners ;  for  checking  laughter  and  forc- 
ing smiles ;  for  reducing  all  varieties  of  intellect,  all  grada- 
tions of  feeling,  to  one  uniform  tint  1  Is  there  not  already 
a  sufficient  sameness  in  the  aspect  and  tone  of  polished  life  ? 
Oh,  leave  children  as  they  are,  to  relieve,  by  their  "  wild 
freshness,"  our  elegant  insipidity ;  leave  their  "  hair  loosely 
flowing,  robes  as  free,"  to  refresh  the  eyes  that  love  sim- 
plicity ;  and  leave  their  eagerness,  their  warmth,  their  unre- 
flecting sincerity,  their  unschooled  expressions  of  joy  or 
regret,  to  amuse  and  delight  us,  when  we  are  a  little  tired 
by  the  politeness,  the  caution,  the  wisdom  and  the  coldness 
of  the  grown-up  world. 


244  YOUNG  LADIES    CLASS  BOOK. 

Children  may  teach  us  one  blessed,  one  enviable  art, — the 
art  of  being  easily  happy.  Kind  nature  has  given  to  them 
that  useful  power  of  accommodation  to  circumstances,  which 
compensates  for  so  many  external  disadvantages ;  and  it  is 
only  by  injudicious  management  that  it  is  lost.  Give  him 
but  a  moderate  portion  of  food  and  kindness,  and  the  peas- 
ant's child  is  happier  than  the  duke's  ;  free  from  artificial 
wants,  unsated  by  indulgence,  all  nature  ministers  to  his 
pleasures ;  he  can  carve  out  felicity  from  a  bit  of  hazel  twig, 
or  fish  for  it  successfully  in  a  puddle. 

He  must  have  been  singularly  unfortunate  in  childhood,  or 
singularly  the  reverse  in  after-life,  who  does  not  look  back  upon 
its  scenes,  its  sports  and  pleasures,  with  fond  regret.  The 
wisest  and  happiest  of  us  may  occasionally  detect  this  feeling 
in  our  bosoms.  There  is  something  unreasonably  dear  to  the 
man  in  the  recollection  of  the  follies,  the  whims,  the  petty 
cares  and  exaggerated  delights  of  his  childhood.  Perhaps 
he  is  engaged  in  schemes  of  soaring  ambition ;  but  he  fancies, 
sometimes,  that  there  was  once  a  greater  charm  in  flying  a 
kite.  Perhaps,  after  many  a  hard  lesson,  he  has  acquired 
a  power  of  discernment  and  spirit  of  caution,  which  defies 
deception  ;  but  he  now  and  then  wishes  for  the  boyish  con- 
fidence, which  venerated  every  old  beggar,  and  wept  at  every 
tale  of  wo. 

He  who  feels  thus,  cannot  contemplate,  unmoved,  the  joys 
and  sports  of  childhood ;  and  he  gazes,  perhaps,  on  the  care- 
free brow  and  rapture-beaming  countenance,  with  the  melan- 
choly and  awe  which  the  lovely  victims  of  consumption  in- 
spire, when,  unconscious  of  danger,  they  talk  cheerfully  of  the 
future.  He  feels  that  he  is  in  possession  of  a  mysterious 
secret,  of  which  happy  children  have  no  suspicion.  He  knows 
what  the  life  is,  on  which  they  are  about  to  enter ;  and  he  is 
sure  that,  whether  it  smiles  or  frowns  upon  them,  its  brightest 
glances  will  be  cold  and  dull,  compared  with  those  under 
which  they  are  now  basking. 


yOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  245 

LESSON  CVIL 

Dialogue  :  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bolinghrohe. — Miss  Edgeworth. 

Mrs.  Bolinghroke.  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  the  matter 
with  me  this  morning.  Why  do  you  keep  the  newspaper  all 
to  yourself,  my  dear  ? 

Mr.  Bolinghrohe.  Here  it  is  for  you,  my  dear  :  I  have 
finished  it. 

Mrs.  B.  I  humbly  thank  you  for  giving  it  to  me  when 
you  have  done  with  it — I  hate  stale  news.  Is  there  any 
thing  in  the  paper  1  for  I  cannot  be  at  the  trouble  of  hunt- 
ing it. 

Mr.  B.  Yes,  my  dear ;  there  are  the  marriages  of  two  of 
our  friends. 

Mrs.B.     Who?  Who? 

Mr.  B.  Your  friend,  the  widow  Nettleby,  to  her  cousin 
John  Nettleby. 

Mrs.  B.     Mrs.  Nettleby !  Lord !  But  why  did  you  tell  me  ? 

Mr.  B.     Because  you  asked  me,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  B.  Oh,  but  it  is  a  hundred  times  pleasanter  to  read 
the  paragraph  one's  self.  One  loses  all  the  pleasure  of  the 
surprise  by  being  told.     Well,  whose  was  the  other  marriage  1 

Mr.  B.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  will  not  tell  you ;  I  will  leave 
you  the  pleasure  of  the  surprise. 

Mrs.  B.  But  you  see  I  cannot  find  it.  How  provoking 
you  are,  my  dear !     Do  pray  tell  it  me. 

Mr.  B.     Our  friend,  Mr.  Granby. 

Mrs.  B.  Mr.  Granby !  Dear !  Why  did  not  you  make 
me  guess  ?  I  should  have  guessed  him  directly.  But  why 
do  you*call  him  our  friend  ?  I  am  sure  he  is  no  friend  of 
mine,  nor  ever  was.  I  took  an  aversion  to  him,  as  you  may 
remember,  the  very  first  day  I  saw  him.  I  am  sure  he  is  no 
friend  of  mine. 

Mr.  B.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  my  dear ;  but  I  hope  you  will  go 
and  see  Mrs.  Granby. 

Mrs.  B.    Not  I,  indeed,  my  dear.     Who  was  she  ? 

Mr.  B.     Miss  Cooke.  * 

21* 


246  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Mrs.  B.  Cooke !  But  there  are  so  many  Cookes — Can't 
you  distinguish  her  any  way  ?     Has  she  no  Christian  name  ? 

Mr.  B.     Emma,  I  think — Yes,  Emma. 

Mrs.  B.  Emma  Cooke  ! — No  ; — it  cannot  be  my  friend 
Emma  Cooke  ;  for  I  am  sure  she  was  cut  out  for  an  old  maid. 

Mr.  B.    This  lady  seems  to  me  to  be  cut  out  for  a  good  wife. 

Mrs.  B.  May  be  so — I  am  sure  I'll  never  go  to  see  her. 
Pray,  my  dear,  how  came  you  to  see  so  much  of  her? 

Mr.  B.  I  have  seen  very  little  of  her,  my  dear.  I  only 
saw  her  two  or  three  times  before  she  was  married.     . 

Mrs.  B.  Then,  my  dear,  how  could  you  decide  that  she 
was  cut  out  for  a  good  wife  ?  I  am  sure  you  could  not  judge 
of  her  by  seeing  her  only  two  or  three  times,  and  before  she 
was  married. 

Mr.  B.     Indeed,  my  love,  that  is  a  very  just  observation. 

Mrs.  B.  I  understand  that  compliment  perfectly,  and 
thank  you  for  it,  my  dear.  I  must  own  I  can  bear  any  thing 
better  than  irony. 

Mr.  B.     Irony  !  my  dear,  I  was  perfectly  in  earnest. 

Mrs.  B,  Yes,  yes ;  in  earnest — so  I  perceive — I  may^ 
naturally  be  dull  of  apprehension,  but  my  feelings  are  quick 
enough  ;  I  comprehend  you  too  well.  Yes — it  is  impossible 
to  judge  of  a  woman  before  marriage,  or  to  guess  what  sort 
of  a  wife  she  will  make.  I  presume  you  speak  from  experi- 
ence ;  you  have  been  disappointed  yourself,  and  repent  your 
choice. 

Mr.  B.  My  dear,  what  did  I  say  that  was  like  this  1  Upon 
my  word,  I  meant  no  such  thing.  I  really  was  not  thinking 
of  you  in  the  least. 

Mrs.  B.  No — you  never  think  of  me  now.  I  can  easily 
believe  that  you  were  not  thinking  of  me  in  the  least. 

BIr.  B.  But  I  said  that,  only  to  prove  to  you  that  I  could 
not  be  thinking  ill  of  you,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  B.  But  I  would  rather  that  you  thought  ill  of  me, 
than  that  you  did  not  think  of  me  at  all. 

Mr.  B.  Well,  my  dear,  I  will  even  think  ill  of  you,  if 
that  will  please  you. 

Mrs.  B.  Do  you  laugh  at  me  ?  When  it  comes  to  this,  I 
am  wretched  indeed.  Never  man  laughed  at  the  woman  he 
loved.      As  long  as  you  had  the  slightest  remains  of  love  for 


1^ 


YOUING  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  347 


me,  you  could  not  make  me  an  object  of  derision  :  ridicule 
and  love  are  incompatible ;  absolutely  incompatible.  Well, 
I  have  done  my  best,  my  very  best,  to  make  you  happy,  but 
in  vain.  I  see  I  am  not  cut  out  to  be  a  good  wife.  Happy, 
happy  Mrs.  Granby  ! 

Mr.  B.  Happy,  I  hope  sincerely,  that  she  will  be  with 
my  friend ;  but  my  happiness  must  depend  on  you,  my  love ; 
so,  for  my  sake,  if  not  for  your  own,  be  composed,  and  do 
not  torment  yourself  with  such  fancies. 

Mrs.  B.  I  do  wonder  whether  this  Mrs.  Granby  is  l:eally 
that  Miss  Emma  Cooke.  I'll  go  and  see  her  directly;  see 
her  I  must. 

Mr.  B.  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it,  my  dear ;  for  I  am  sure 
a  visit  to  his  wife  will  give  my  friend  Granby  real  pleasure. 

Mrs.  B.  I  promise  you,  my  dear,  I  do  not  go  to  give  hira 
pleasure  or  you  either ;  but  to  satisfy  my  own — curiosity. 


LESSON  cvni. 

The  Burning  of  Moscow. — Labaume. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  September,  1812,  ouj  corps  left  the 
village  where  it  had  encamped,  at  an  early  hour,  and  marched 
to  Moscow.  As  we  approached  the  city,  we  saw  that  it  had 
no  walls,  and  that  a  simple  parapet  of  earth  was  the  only 
work,  which  constituted  the  outer  enclosure.  Nothing  indi- 
cated that  the  town  was  inhabited ;  and  the  road  by  which 
we  arrived  was  so  deserted,  that  we  saw  neither  Russian  nor 
French  soldiers.  No  cry,  no  noise  was  heard  in  the  midst 
of  this  awful  solitude.  We  pursued  our  march,  a  prey  to  the 
utmost  anxiety ;  and  that  anxiety  was  redoubled,  when  we 
perceived  a  thick  smoke,  which  arose,  in  the  form  of  a  col- 
umn, from  the  centre  of  the  town. 

On  the  following  morning,  the  most  heart-rending  scene, 
which  my  imagination  had  ever  conceived,  far  surpassing  the 
saddest  story  in  ancient  or  modern  history,  presented  itself 
to  my  eyes.  A  great  part  of  the  population  of  Moscow, 
terrified  at  our  arrival,  had  concealed  themselves  in  cellars  or 


248  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

secret  recesses  of  their  houses.  As  the  fire  spread  around, 
we  saw  them  rushing  in  despair  fi-om  their  various  asylums. 
They  uttered  no  imprecation  ;  they  breathed  no  complaint : 
fear  had  rendered  them  dumb:  and  hastily  snatching  up 
their  most  precious  effects,  they  fled  before  the  flames. 

Others,  of  greater  sensibility,  and  actuated  by  the  genuine 
feelings  of  nature,  saved  only  their  parents,  or  their  infants, 
who  were  closely  clasped  in  their  arms.  They  were  followed 
by  their  other  children,  running  as  fast  as  their  little  strength 
would  permit,  and,  with  all  the  wildness  of  childish  terror, 
vociferating  the  beloved  name  of  mother.  The  old  people, 
borne  down  by  grief  more  than  by  age,  had  not  sufficient 
power  to  follow  their  families,  and  expired  near  the  houses  in 
which  they  were  born.  The  streets,  the  public  places,  and 
particularly  the  churches,  were  filled  with  these  unhappy 
people,  who,  lying  on  the  remains  of  their  property,  suffered 
even  without  a  murmur.  No  cry,  no  complaint  was  heard. 
Both  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered  were  equally  harden- 
ed ;  the  one  by  excess  of  fortune,  the  other  by  excess  of 
misery. 

The  fire,  whose  ravages  could  not  be  restrained,  soon 
reached  the  finest  parts  of  the  city.  Those  palaces,  which 
we  had  admired  for  the  beauty  of  their  architecture,  and  the 
elegance  of  their  furniture,  were  enveloped  in  the  flames. 
Their  magnificent  fronts,  ornamented  with  bass-reliefs  and 
statues,  fell,  with  a  dreadful  crash,  on  the  fragments  of  the  pil- 
lars which  had  supported  them.  The  churches,  though  covered 
with  iron  and  lead,  were  likewise  destroyed,  and  with  them 
those  beautiful  steeples,  which  we  had  seen,  the  night  before, 
resplendent  with  gold  and  silver.  The  hospitals,  too,  which 
contained  more  than  twelve  thousand  wounded,  soon  began 
to  burn.  This  offered  a  dreadful  and  harrowing  spectacle. 
Almost  all  these  poor  wretches  perished.  A  few,  who  still 
lingered,  were  seen  crawling,  half  burnt,  amongst  the  smoking 
ruins ;  and  others,  groaning  under  heaps  of  dead  bodies, 
endeavored,  in  vain,  to  extricate  themselves  from  the  horrible 
destruction  which  surrounded  them. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  confusion  and  tumult,  when  per- 
mission was  granted  to  pillage  this  immense  city  !  Soldiers 
sutlers  and    galljey-slaves  eagerly  ran   through  the  streets 


r 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  249 


penetrating  into  the  deserted  palaces,  and  carrying  away 
every  thing  which  could  gratify  their  avarice.  Some  covered 
themselves  with  stuffs  richly  worked  with  gold  and  silks  • 
some  were  enveloped  in  beautiful  and  costly  furs ;  and  even 
the  galley-slaves  concealed  their  rags  under  the  most  splen- 
did habits  of  the  court.  The  rest  crowded  into  the  cellars, 
and,  forcing  open  the  doors,  drank  to  excess  the  most  luscious 
wines,  and  carried  off  an  immense  booty. 

This  horrible  pillage  was  not  confined  to  the  deserted 
houses  alone,  but  extended  to  those  which  were  inhabited  ; 
and  soon  the  eagerness  and  wantonness  of  the  plunderers 
caused  devastations,  which  almost  equalled  those  occasioned 
by  the  conflagration.  Every  asylum  was  violated  by  the 
licentious  troops.  They  who  had  officers  in  their  houses 
flattered  themselves  that  they  should  escape  the  general  ca- 
lamity. Vain  illusion !  The  advancing  fire  soon  destroyed  all 
their  hopes. 

Towards  evening,  when  Napoleon  no  longer  thought  him- 
self safe  in  the  city,  the  ruin  of  which  seemed  inevitable,  he 
left  the  Kremlin,  and  established  himself  with  his  suite  in 
the  castle  of  Peterskoe.  When  I  saw  him  pass  by,  I  could 
not  behold  without  abhorrence  the  chief  of  a  barbarous  ex- 
pedition, who  evidently  endeavored  to  escape  the  decided 
testimony  of  public  indignation,  by  seeking  the  darkest  road. 
He  sought  it,  however,  in  vain.  On  every  side,  the  flames 
seemed  to  pursue  him  ;  and  their  horrible  and  mournful  glare, 
flashing  on  his  guilty  head,  reminded  me  of  the  torches  of 
Eumenides  pursuing  the  destined  victims  of  the  Furies. 

The  generals,  likewise,  received  orders  to  quit  Moscow. 
Licentiousness  then  became  unbounded.  The  soldiers,  no 
longer  restrained  by  the  presence  of  their  chiefs,  committed 
every  kind  of  excess.  No  retreat  was  safe,  no  place  suf- 
ficiently sacred  to  afford  protection  against  their  rapacity. 
Nothing  more  fully  excited  their  avarice  than  the  church  of 
St.  Michael,  the  sepulchre  of  the  Russian  emperors.  An 
erroneous  tradition  had  propagated  the  belief  that  it  contain- 
ed immense  riches.  Some  grenadiers  presently  entered  it, 
and  descended  with  torches  into  the  vast  subterranean  vaults, 
to  disturb  the  peace  and  silence  of  the  tombs.  But  instead 
of  treasures,  they  found  only  stone  coffins,  covered  with  pink 


250  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

velvet,  and  bearing  thin  silver  plates,  on  which  were  en- 
graved the  names  of  the  czars,  and  the  dates  of  their  birth 
and  decease. 

With  all  the  excesses  of  plunder,  they  mingled  the  most 
degrading  and  horrible  debauchery.  Neither  nobility  of 
blood,  nor  the  innocence  of  youth,  nor  the  tears  of  beauty, 
were  respected.  The  licentiousness  was  cruel  and  boundless ; 
but  it  was  inevitable  in  a  savage  war,  in  which  sixteen  differ- 
ent nations,  opposite  in  their  manners  and  their  language, 
thought  themselves  at  liberty  to  commit  every  crime. 


LESSON  CIX. 

The  same, — concluded. 

Penetrated  by  so  many  calamities,  I  hoped  that  the 
shades  of  night  would  cast  a  veil  over  the  dreadful  scene ; 
but  they  contributed,  on  the  contrary,  to  render  the  confla- 
gration more  terrible.  The  violence  of  the  flames,  which 
extended  from  north  to  south,  and  were  strangely  agitated  by 
the  wind,  produced  the  most  awful  appearance  on  a  sky 
which  was  darkened  by  the  thickest  smoke.  Frequently  was 
seen  the  glare  of  the  burning  torches,  which  the  incendiaries 
were  hurling,  from  the  tops  of  the  highest  towers,  on  those 
parts  of  the  city  which  had  yet  escaped  destruction,  and 
which  resembled,  at  a  distance,  so  many  passing  meteors. 

Nothing  could  equal  the  anguish  which  absorbed  every 
feeling  heart,  and  which  was  increased,  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  by  the  cries  of  the  miserable  victims  who  were  savage- 
ly murdered,  or  by  the  screams  of  the  young  females,  who 
fled  for  protection  to  their  weeping  mothers.  To  these 
dreadful  groans  and  heart-rending  cries,  which  every  mo- 
ment broke  upon  the  ear,  were  added  the  bowlings  of  the 
dogs,  which,  chained  to  the  doors  of  the  palaces,  according 
to  the  custom  at  Moscow,  could  not  escape  from  the  fire 
which  surrounded  them. 

Overpowered  with  regret  and  with  terror,  I  flattered  my- 
self th?*   sleep   would  for  a  while  release  me  from  these 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  251 

revolting  scenes ;  but  the  most  frightful  recollections  crowded 
upon  me,  and  all  the  horrors  of  the  day  again  passed  in  re- 
view. My  wearied  senses  seemed,  at  las-t,  sinking  into 
repose,  when  the  light  of  a  near  and  dreadful  conflagration, 
piercing  into  my  room,  suddenly  awoke  me.  I  thought  that 
my  chamber  was  a  prey  to  the  flames.  It  was  no  idle  dream ; 
for,  when  I  approached  the  window,  I  saw  that  our  quarters 
were  on  fire,  and  that  the  house  in  which  I  lodged  was  iii 
the  utmost  danger.  Sparks  were  thickly  falling  in  our  yard 
and  on  the  wooden  roofs  of  our  stables. 

I  ran  quickly  to  my  landlord  and  his  family.  Perceiving 
their  danger,  they  had  already  quitted  their  habitation,  and 
had  retired  to  a  subterranean  vault,  which  afforded  them 
more  security.  I  found  them,  with  their  servants,  all  assem- 
bled there ;  nor  could  I  prevail  on  them  to  leave  it,  for  they 
dreaded  our  soldiers  more  than  the  fire.  The  father  was 
sitting  on  the  threshold  of  the  vault,  and  appeared  desirous 
of  first  exposing  himself  to  the  calamities  which  threatened 
his  family.  Two  of  his  daughters,  pale,  with  dishevelled 
hair,  and  whose  tears  added  to  their  beauty,  disputed  with 
him  the  honor  of  the  sacrifice.  It  was  not  without  violence 
that  I  could  snatch  them  from  the  building,  under  which  they 
would  otherwise  soon  have  been  buried.  When  these  un- 
happy creatures  again  saw  the  light,  they  contemplated  with 
indifference  the  loss  of  all  their  property,  and  were  only 
astonished  that  they  were  still  alive. 

Desirous  of  terminating  the  recital  of  this  horrible  catas- 
trophe, for  which  history  wants  expressions,  and  poetry  has 
no  colors,  I  shall  pass  over  in  silence  many  circumstances 
revolting  to  humanity,  and  merely  describe  the  dreadful  con- 
fusion, which  arose  in  our  army  when  the  fire  had  reached 
every  part  of  Moscow,  and  the  whole  city  was  become  one 
immense  flame. 

Tbe  different  streets  could  no  longer  be  distinguished, 
and  the  places,  on  which  the  houses  had  stood,  were  marked 
only  by  confused  piles  of  stones,  calcined  and  black.  The 
wind,  blowing  with  violence,  howled  mournfully,  and  over- 
whelmed us  with  ashes,  with  burning  fragments,  and  even 
with  the  iron  plates  which  covered  the  palace.  On  whatever 
side  we  turned,  we  saw  only  ruins   and  flames.     The  fire 


252  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

raged  as  if  it  were  fanned  by  some  invisible  power.  The 
most  extensive  ranges  of  buildings  seemed  to  kindle,  to  burn, 
and  to  disappear  in  an  instant. 

As  we  again  traversed  the  streets  of  Moscow,  we  experi- 
enced the  most  heart-rending  sensations,  at  perceiving  that 
no  vestige  remained  of  those  noble  hotels,  at  which  we  had 
formerly  been  established.  They  were  entirely  demolished, 
and  their  ruins,  still  smoking,  exhaled  a  vapor  which,  filling 
the  whole  atmosphere,  and  forming  the  densest  clouds,  either 
totally  obscured  the  sun,  or  gave  to  his  disk  a  red  and  bloody 
appearance.  The  outline  of  the  streets  was  no  longer  to  be 
distinguished.  The  stone  palaces  were  the  only  buildings 
which  preserved  any  traces  of  their  former  magnificence. 
Standing  alone  amidst  piles  of  ruins,  and  blackened  with 
smoke,  these  wrecks  of  a  city,  so  newly  built,  resembled 
some  of  the  venerable  remains  of  antiquity. 

Each  one  endeavored  to  find  quarters  for  himself;  but 
rarely  could  we  meet  with  houses  which  joined  together; 
and,  to  shelter  a  few  companies,  we  were  obliged  to  occupy  a 
vast  tract  of  land,  which  only  offered  a  few  habitations,  scat- 
tered here  and  there.  Some  of  the  churches,  composed  of 
less  combustible  materials  than  the  other  buildings,  had  their 
roofs  entire,  and  were  transformed  into  barracks  and  stables. 
The  hymns  and  holy  melodies,  which  had  once  resounded 
within  these  sacred  walls,  now  gave  place  to  the  neighing  of 
horses,  and  the  horrible  blasphemies  of  the  soldiers. 

Although  the  population  of  Moscow  had  almost  disappear- 
ed, there  still  remained  some  of  those  unfortunate  beings, 
whom  misery  had  accustomed  to  look  on  all  occurrences  with 
indifference.  Most  of  them  had  become  the  menial  servants 
of  their  spoilers,  and  thought  themselves  most  happy  if  they 
were  permitted  to  share  any  loathsome  food  which  the  soldiers 
rejected. 

Many  of  the  Moscovites,  who  had  been  concealed  in  the 
neighboring  forests,  perceiving  that  the  conflagration  had 
ceased,  and  believing  that  they  had  nothing  more  to  fear, 
had  reentered  the  city.  Some  of  them  sought  in  vain  for 
their  houses,  the  very  sites  of  which  could  scarcely  be  discov- 
ered ;  others  would  fain  have  taken  refuge  in  the  sanctuary 
of  their  God  ;  but  it  had  been  profaned.     The  public  walks 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS   BOOK.  2o3 

presented  a  revolting  spectacle.  The  ground  was  thickly 
strowed  with  dead  bodies ;  and  from  many  of  the  half-burnt 
trees  were  suspended  the  carcasses  of  incendiaries. 

In  the  midst  of  these  horrors  were  seen  many  of  the  un- 
fortunate inhabitants,  who,  destitute  of  every  asylum,  were 
collecting  the  charred  planks,  to  construct  a  cabin  in  some 
unfrequented  place,  or  ravaged  garden.  Having  nothing  to 
eat,  they  eagerly  dug  the  earth,  to  find  the  roots  of  those  veg- 
etables which  the  soldiers  had  gathered  ;  or,  wandering  among 
the  ruins,  they  diligently  searched  among  the  cinders  for  any 
food  which  the  fire  had  not  entirely  consumed.  Pale,  ema- 
ciated, and  almost  naked,  the  very  slowness  of  their  walk 
announced  the  excess  of  their  sufferings. 


LESSON   ex. 

View  of  Mont  Blanc  at  Sunset. — Griscom. 

We  arrived,  before  sundown,  at  the  village  of  St.  Martin, 
where  we  were  to  stay  for  the  night.  The  evening  being 
remarkably  fine,  we  crossed  the  Arve  on  a  beautiful  bridge, 
and  walked  over  to  Salenche,  a  very  considerable  village,  op- 
posite to  St.  Martin,  and  ascended  a  hill  to  view  the  effect  of 
the  sun's  declining  light  upon  Mont  Blanc.  The  scene  was 
truly  grand.  The  broad  range  of  the  mountain  was  fully 
before  us,  of  a  pure  and  almost  glowing  white,  apparently  to 
its  very  base ;  and  which,  contrasted  with  the  brown  tints  of 
the  adjoining  mountains,  greatly  heightened  the  novelty  of 
the  scene.  We  could  scarcely  avoid  the  conclusion,  that  this 
vast  pile  of  snow  was  very  near  us  ;  and  yet  its  base  was  not 
less  than  fifteen,  and  its  summit,  probably,  more  than  twenty 
miles  from  the  place  where  we  stood. 

The  varying  rays  of  light,  produced  by  reflection  from  the 
snow,  passing,  as  the  sun's  rays  declined,  from  a  brilliant 
white  through  purple  and  pink,  and  ending  in  the  gentle 
light,  which  the  snow  gives  after  the  sun  has  set,  afforded  an 
exhibition  in  optics  upon  a  scale  of  grandeur,  which  no  other 


254  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

region  in  the  world  could  probably  excel.  Never,  in  my  life, 
have  my  feelings  been  so  powerfully  affected  by  mere  scenery 
as  they  were  in  this  day's  excursion.  The  excitement,  though 
attended  by  sensations  awfully  impressive,  is,  nevertheless,  so 
finely  attempered  by  the  glow  of  novelty,  incessantly  mingled 
with  astonishment  and  admiration,  as  to  produce,  on  the 
whole,  a  feast  of  delight. 

A  few  years  ago,  I  stood  upon  Table  Rock,  and  placed  my 
cane  in  the  descending  flood  of  Niagara.  Its  tremendous 
roar  almost  entirely  precluded  conversation  with  the  friend  at 
my  side ;  while  its  whirlwind  of  mist  and  foam  filled  the  air 
to  a  great  distance  around  me.  The  rainbow  sported  in  its 
bosom ;  the  gulf  below  exhibited  the  wild  fury  of  an  im- 
mense boiling  caldron  ;  while  the  rapids  above,  for  the  space 
of  nearly  a  mile,  appeared  like  a  mountain  of  billows  chafing 
and  dashing  against  each  other  with  thundering  impetuosity, 
in  their  eager  strife  to  gain  the  precipice,  and  take  the  awful 
leap. 

In  contemplating  this  scene,  my  imagination  and  my  heart 
were  filled  with  sublime  and  tender  emotions.  The  soul 
seemed  to  be  brought  a  step  nearer  to  the  presence  of  that 
incomprehensible  Being,  whose  spirit  dwelt  in  every  feature 
of  the  cataract,  and  directed  all  its  amazing  energies.  Yet, 
in  the  scenery  of  this  day,  there  was  more  of  a  pervading 
sense  of  awful  and  unlimited  grandeur;  mountain  piled  upon 
mountain,  in  endless  continuity,  throughout  the  whole  extent, 
and  crowned  by  the  brightest  effulgence  of  an  evening  sun, 
upon  the  everlasting  snows  of  the  highest  pinnacle  of  Europe. 


LESSON   CXI. 
To  the  Stars. — Croly. 

Ye  stars,  bright  legions,  that,  before  all  time, 

Camped  on  yon  plains  of  sapphire, — what  shall  tell 

Your  burning  myriads,  but  the  eye  of  Him 

Who  bade  through  heaven  your  golden  chariots  wheel  ? 


YOUNG   LADIES'   CLASS  BOOK.  255 

Yet  who,  earthborn,  can  see  your  hosts,  nor  feel 
Immortal  impulses — Eternity  ? 

What  wonder  if  the  o'erwrought  soul  should  reel 
With  its  own  weight  of  thought,  and  the  wild  eye 
See  fate  within  your  tracks  of  sleepless  glory  lie  ? 

For  ye  behold  the  Mightiest. — From  that  steep, 

What  ages  have  ye  worshipped  round  your  King ! 
Ye  heard  his  trumpet  sounding  o'er  the  sleep 

Of  earth ;  ye  heard  the  morning  angels  sing. 

Upon  that  orb,  now  o'er  me  quivering, 
The  gaze  of  Adam  fixed  from  Paradise; 

The  wanderers  of  the  deluge  saw  it  spring 
Above  the  mountain  surge,  and  hailed  its  rise, 
Lighting  their  lonely  track  with  Hope's  celestial  dyes. 

On  Calvary  shot  down  that  purple  eye, 

When,  but  the  soldier  and  the  sacrifice, 
All  were  departed — Mount  of  Agony  ! 

But  Time's  broad  pinion,  ere  the  giant  dies, 

Shall  cloud  your  dome : — ye  fruitage  of  the  skies. 

Your  vineyard  shall  be  shaken.     From  your  urn. 

Censers  of  heaven,  no  more  shall  glory  rise, 

^    Your  incense  to  the  throne.     The  heavens  shall  burn ! 

For  all  your  pomps  are  dust,  and  shall  to  dust  return .' 


LESSON  CXIL 

Sabbath  Morning. — Grahame. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 
The  ploughboy's  whistle,  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers. 
That  yester-morn  bloomed,  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds,  the  most  faint,  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew. 


256  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas, 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale  ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  with  heaven-tuned  song  ;   the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen ; 
While,  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals. 
The  voice  of  psalms, — the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With  dove-like  wings.  Peace  o'er  yon  village  broods 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests  ;  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Legs  fearful,  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large  ; 
And  as  his  stiff,  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls. 
His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  ^oor  man's  day. 
On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread  lonely, — the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from  the  winter's  cold 
And  summer's  heat,  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree ; 
But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home. 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves ; 
With  those  he  loves,  he  shares  the  heart-felt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 
A  word  and  a  grimace  ;  but  reverently, 
With  covered  face,  and  upward,  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !   thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  : 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke  ; 
While,  wandering  slowly  up  the  river's  side. 
He  meditates  on  Him,  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  357 

As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  its  roots ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys, 
With  elevated  joy,  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes, — yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope, — 
That  heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 


LESSON   CXIII. 
The.  Evening  Cloud :  a  Sonnet. — Wilson. 

A  CLOUD  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun — 

A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow ; 
Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on. 

O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow ; 

E'en  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest. 
While  every  breath  of  eve,  that  chanced  to  blow. 

Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west — 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul, 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given, 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven ; 
Where,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  it  peaceful  lies. 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 


LESSON  CXIV. 

Twilight, — Hope. — Halleck. 

There  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart. 
When  its  wild  passion  waves  are  lulled  to  rest, 

And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 
As  fades  the  day-beam  in  the  rosy  west. 

22* 


258  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

'Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet ; 

But  Hope  is  round  us,  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour  ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early  power. 

In  youth,  the  cheek  was  crimsoned  with  her  glow; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then ;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  wo 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 
Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born  ; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die. 
Flushed  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mocked  the  passing  clouds  that  dimmed  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then — as  fleeting  and  as  few. 

And  manhood  felt  her  sway,  too  ;  on  the  eye, 

Half  realized,  her  early  dreams  burst  bright ; 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seemed  nigh, — 

Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight  ; 
And  though,  at  times,  might  lower  the  thunder-storm, 

And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 
Was  balmy  with  her  breath,  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 
'Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen. 
Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer  green. 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress. 

There's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her  now; 
That  angel-smile  of  tranquil  loveliness. 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow — 
That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening  star, 

That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 
Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar. 

And  hushed  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart, — 
The  meteor-bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 
A  moon-beam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.        »  259 

LESSON  CXV. 

Perpetual  Adoration. — Moore. 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine ; 
My  temple,  Lord,  that  arch  of  thine  j 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves. 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves; 
Or,  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea. 
Even  more  than  music,  breathes  of  thee. 

I'll  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne  ; 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  heaven,  on  which  'tis  bliss  to  look, 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book. 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  flame, 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I'll  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack, 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track ; 

Thy  mercy,  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness,  breaking  through. 

There's  nothing  bright,  above,  below. 
From  flowers  that  bloom,  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  Deity  ! 

There's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love ; 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment,  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again. 


260  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON   CXVI. 

Music  of  Nature. — Pierpont. 

In  what  rich  harmony,  what  polished  lays, 
Should  man  address  thy  throne,  when  Nature  pays 
Her  wild,  her  tuneful  tribute  to  the  sky ! 
Yes,  Lord,  she  sings  thee,  but  she  knows  not  why. 
The  fountain's  gush,  the  long-resOunding  shore, 
The  zephyr's  whisper,  and  the  tempest's  roar, 
The  rustling  leaf,  in  autumn's  fading  woods, 
The  wintry  storm,  the  rush  of  vernal  floods. 
The  summer  bower,  by  cooling  breezes  fanned. 
The  torrent's  fall,  by  dancing  rainbows  spanned. 
The  streamlet,  gurgling  through  its  rocky  glen. 
The  long  grass,  sighing  o'er  the  graves  of  men. 
The  bird  that  crests  yon  dew-bespangled  tree. 
Shakes  his  bright  plumes,  and  trills  his  descant  free, 
The  scorching  bolt,  that,  from  thine  armory  hurled, 
Burns  its  red  path,  and  cleaves  a  shrinking  world  ; 
All  these  are  music  to  Religion's  ear  : — 
Music,  thy  hand  awakes,  for  man  to  hear. 


LESSON  CXVIL 

Comparison  of  Watches. — Miss  Edgeworth. 

When  Griselda  thought  that  her  husband  had  long  enough 
enjoyed  his  new  existence,  and  that  there  was  danger  of  his 
forgetting  the  taste  of  sorrow,  she  changed  her  tone. — One 
day,  when  he  had  not  returned  home  exactly  at  the  appointed 
minute,  she  received  him  with  a  frown ;  such  as  would  have 
made  even  Mars  himself  recoil,  if  Mars  could  have  beheld 
such  a  frown  upon  the  brow  of  his  Venus. 

"  Dinner  has  been  kept  waiting  for  you  this  hour,  my  dear." 
"  I  am  very  sorry  for  it;  but  why  did  you  wait,  my  dear? 
I  am  really  very  sorry  I  am  so  late,  but"  (looking  at  his  watch) 
"  it  is  only  half  past  six  by  me." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  261 

"  It  is  seven  by  me." 

They  presented  their  watches  to  each  other ;  he  in  an 
apologetical,  she  in  a  reproachful,  attitude. 

"  I  rather  think  you  are  too  fast,  my  dear,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman. 

"  I  am  very  sure  you  are  too  slow,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady. 

"  My  watch  never  loses  a  minute  in  the  four-and-twenty 
hours,"  said  he. 

"  Nor  mine  a  second,"  said  she. 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  I  am  right,  my  love,"  said  the 
husband,  mildly. 

"  Reason  !"  exclaimed  the  wife,  astonished.  "  What  rea- 
son can  you  possibly  have  to  believe  you  are  right,  when  I 
tell  you  I  am  morally  certain  you  are  wrong,  my  love." 

"  My  only  reason  for  doubting  it  is,  that  I  set  my  watch 
by  the  sun  to-day." 

"  The  sun  must  be  wrong  then,"  cried  the  lady,  hastily. — 
"  You  need  not  laugh  ;  for  I  know  what  I  am  saying ;  the  J^ 
variation,  the  declination,  must  be  allowed  for,  in  computing 
it  with  the  clock.  Now  you  know  perfectly  well  what  I 
mean,  though  you  will  not  explain  it  for  me,  because  you  are 
conscious  I  am  in  the  right." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  if  you  are  conscious  of  it,  that  is  suf- 
ficient. We  will  not  dispute  any  more  about  such  a  trifle. 
Are  they  bringing  up  dinner  ?" 

"If  they  know  that  you  are  come  in  ;  but  I  am  sure  I  can- 
not tell  whether  they  do  or  not. — Pray,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nettle- 
by,"  cried  the  lady,  turning  to  a  female  friend,  and  still 
holding  her  watch  in  hand,  "  what  o'clock  is  it  by  you  ? 
There  is  nobody  in  the  world  hates  disputing  about  trifles  so 
much  as  I  do ;  but  I  own  I  do  love  to  convince  people  that  I 
am  in  the  right." 

Mrs.  Nettleby's  watch  had  stopped.  How  provoking  !  Vex 
ed  at  having  no  immediate  means  of  convincing  people  that 
she  was  in  the  right,  our  heroine  consoled  herself  by  pro- 
ceeding to  criminate  her  husband,  not  in  this  particular 
instance,  where  he  pleaded  guilty,  but  upon  the  general 
charge  of  being  always  late  for  dinner,  which  he  strenuously 
denied. 

There   is   something  in  the  species  of  reproach,  which 


262  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

advances  thus  triumphantly  from  particulars  to  generals, 
peculiarly  offensive  to  every  reasonable  and  susceptible  mind ; 
and  there  is  something  in  the  general  charge  of  being  always 
late  for  dinner,  which  the  punctuality  of  man's  nature  cannot 
easily  endure,  especially  if  he  be  hungry.  We  should  hum- 
bly advise  our  female  friends  to  forbear  exposing  a  husband's 
patience  to  this  trial,  or,  at  least,  to  temper  it  with  much 
fondness,  else  mischief  will  infallibly  ensue. 


LESSON  CXVIII. 
Female  Economy. — Hannah  More. 

Ladies,  whose  natural  vanity  has  been  aggravated  by  a 
false  education,  may  look  down  on  economy  as  a  vulgar  at- 
tainment, unworthy  of  the  attention  of  a  highly  cultivated 
intellect ;  but  this  is  the  false  estimate  of  a  shallow  mind. 
Econoftiy,  such  as  a  woman  of  fortune  is  called  on  to  prac- 
tise, is  not  merely  the  petty  detail  of  small  daily  expenses, 
the  shabby  curtailments  and  stinted  parsimony  of  a  little 
mind,  operating  on  little  concerns ;  but  it  is  the  exercise  of 
a  sound  judgment,  exerted  in  the  comprehensive  outline  of 
order,  of  arrangement,  of  distribution,  of  regulations,  by 
which,  alone,  well  governed  societies,  great  and  small,  subsist. 
She,  who  has  the  best  regulated  mind,  will,  other  things 
being  equal,  have  the  best  regulated  family. 

As,  in  the  superintendence  of  the  universe,  wisdom  is  seen 
in  its  effects ;  and  as,  in  the  visible  works  of  Providence, 
that,  which  goes  on  with  such  beautiful  regularity,  is  the 
result,  not  of  chance,  but  of  design  ;  so  that  management, 
which  seems  the  most  easy,  is  commonly  the  consequence  of 
the  best  concerted  plan ;  and  a  well  concerted  plan  is  seldom 
the  offspring  of  an  ordinary  mind.  A  sound  economy  is  a 
sound  understanding  brought  into  action;  it  is  calculation 
realized ;  it  is  the  doctrine  of  proportion  reduced  to  practice ; 
it  is  foreseeing  consequences,  and  guarding  against  them ; 
it  is  expecting  contingencies,  and  being  prepared  for  them. 

The  difference  is,  that,  to  a  narrow-minded,  vulgar  econo- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  263 

mist,  the  details  are  continually  present ;  she  is  overwnelmed 
by  their  weight,  and  is  perpetually  bespeaking  your  pity  for 
her  labors,  and  your  praise  for  her  exertions ;  she  is  afraid 
you  will  not  see  how  much  she  is  harassed.  She  is  not  sat- 
isfied, that  the  machine  moves  harmoniously,  unless  she  is 
perpetually  exposing  every  secret  spring  to  observation.  Lit- 
tle events  and  trivial  operations  engross  her  whole  soul ; 
while  a  woman  of  sense,  having  provided  for  their  probable 
recurrence,  guards  against  the  inconveniences,  without  being 
disconcerted  by  the  casual  obstructions,  which  they  offer  to 
her  general  scheme.  Subordinate  expenses,  and  inconsider- 
able retrenchments,  should  not  swallow  up  that  attention, 
which  is  better  bestowed  on  regulating  the  general  scale  of 
expense,  correcting  and  reducing  an  overgrown  establish- 
ment, and  reforming  radical  and  growing  excesses. 


LESSON  CXIX.  ♦ 

Maternal  Influence. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Domestic  education  has  great  power  in  the  establishment 
of  those  habits,  which  ultimately  stamp  the  character  for 
good  or  evil.  Under  its  jurisdiction,  the  Protean  forms  of 
selfishness  are  best  detected  and  eradicated.  It  is  insepara- 
ble from  the  well-being  of  woman,  that  she  be  disinterested. 
In  the  height  of  youth  and  beauty,  she  may  inhale  incense 
as  a  goddess ;  but  a  time  will  come  for  nectar  and  ambrosia 
to  yield  to  the  food  of  mortals.  Then  the  essence  of  her 
happiness,  will  be  found  to  consist  in  imparting  it. 

If  she  seek  to  intrench  herself  in  solitary  indifference,  her 
native  dependence  comes  over  her,  from  sources  where  it  is 
least  expected,  convincing  her  that  the  true  excellence  of  her 
nature,  is  to  confer  rather  than  to  monopolize  felicity.  When 
we  recollect  that  her  prescribed  sphere  mingles,  with  its 
purest  brightness,  seasons  of  deep  endurance,  anxieties  which 
no  other  heart  can  participate,  and  sorrows  for  which  earth 
has  no  remedy,  we  would  earnestly  incite  those,  who  gird  her 


264  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

for  the  warfare  of  life,  to  confirm  habits  of  fortitude,  self- 
renunciation,  and  calm  reliance  on  an  Invisible  Supporter. 

We  are  not  willing  to  dismiss  this  subject,  without  indulg- 
ing a  few  thoughts  on  maternal  influence.  Its  agency,  in  the 
culture  of  the  affections,  those  springs  which  put  in  motion 
the  human  machine,  has  been  long  conceded.  That  it  might 
also  bear  directly  upon  the  development  of  intellect,  and  the 
growth  of  the  sterner  virtues  of  manhood,  is  proved  by  the 
obligations  of  the  great  Bacon  to  his  studious  mother,  and 
the  acknowledged  indebtedness  of  Washington  to  the  decis- 
ion, to  the  almost  Lacedemonian  culture,  of  his  maternal 
guide. 

The  immense  force  of  first  impressions  is  on  the  side  of 
the  mother.  An  engine  of  uncomputed  power  is  committed 
to  her  hand.  If  she  fix  her  lever  judiciously,  though  she 
may  not,  like  Archimedes,*  aspire  to  move  the  earth,  she  may 
hope  to  raise  one  of  the  habitants  of  earth  to  heaven.  Her 
danger  will  arise  from  delay  in  the  commencement  of  her 
operations,  as  well  as  from  doing  too  little,  or  too  much,  after 
she  hat  engaged  in  the  work.  In  early  education,  the  inert- 
ness which  undertakes  nothing,  and  the  impatience  which 
attempts  all  things  at  once,  may  be  equally  indiscreet  and 
fatal. 

The  mental  fountain  is  unsealed  to  the  eye  of  a  mother, 
ere  it  has  chosen  a  channel,  or  breathed  a  murmur.  She 
may  tinge  with  sweetness  or  bitterness  the  whole  stream  of 
future  life.  Other  teachers  have  to  contend  with  unhappy 
combinations  of  ideas ;  she  rules  the  simple  and  plastic  ele- 
ments. Of  her,  we  may  say,  she  hath  "  entered  into  the 
magazines  of  snow,  and  seen  the  treasures  of  the  hail." 

In  the  moral  field,  she  is  a  privileged  laborer.  Ere  the 
dews  of  morning  begin  to  exhale,  she  is  there.  She  breaks 
up  a  soil,  which  the  root  of  error  and  the  thorns  of  preju- 
dice have  not  preoccupied.  She  plants  germs  whose  fruit  is 
for  eternity.  While  she  feels  that  she  is  required  to  educate, 
not  merely  a  virtuous  member  of  society,  but  a  Christian,  an 
angel,  a  servant  of  the  Most  High,  how  does  so  holy  a  charge 
quicken  piety,  by  teaching  the  heart  its  own  insufficiency ! 

The  soul  of  her  infant  is  uncovered  before  her.     Sh« 

*  Pronounced  Ar-ki-me'-dis. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  265 

knows  that  the  images,  which  she  enshrines  in  that  unpollut- 
ed sanctuary,  mjust  rise  before  her  at  the  bar  of  doom. 
Trembling  at  such  tremendous  responsibility,  she  teaches  the 
little  being,  whose  life  is  her  dearest  care,  of  the  God  who 
made  him ;  and  who  can  measure  the  extent  of  a  mother's 
lessons  of  piety,  unless  his  hand  might  remove  the  veil, 
which  divides  terrestrial  from  celestial  things  ? 

*'  When  I  was  a  little  child,"  said  a  good  man,  "my  mother 
used  to  bid  me  kneel  beside  her,  and  place  her  hand  upon 
my  head,  while  she  prayed.  Ere  I  was  old  enough  to  know 
her  worth,  she  died,  and  I  was  left  too  much  to  my  own 
guidance.  Like  others,  I  was  inclined  to  evil  passions,  but 
often  felt  myself  checked,  and,  as  it  were,  drawn  back,  by  a 
soft  hand  upon  my  head. 

*'  When  a  young  man,  I  travelled  in  foreign  lands,  and  was 
exposed  to  many  temptations.  But  when  I  would  have  yield- 
ed, that  same  hand  was  upon  my  liead^  and  I  was  saved.  I 
seemed  to  feel  its  pressure,  as  in  the  days  of  my  happy  infan- 
cy ;  and  sometimes  there  came  with  it  a  voice,  in  my  heart, — a 
voice  that  must  be  obeyed — *  Oh  !  do  not  this  wickedness, 
my  son,  nor  sin  against  thy  God.'  " 


LESSON  CXX. 

Diedrich  Knickerbocker's   Description   of  Tea-Parties   in 
New  York. — W.  Irving. 

The  company  commonly  assembled  at  three  o'clock,  and 
went  away  about  six ;  unless  it  was  in  winter  time,  when  the 
fashionable  hours  were  a  little  earlier,  that  the  ladies  might  get 
home  before  dark.  The  tea-table  was  crowned  with  a  huge 
earthen  dish,  well  stored  with  slices  of  fat  pork,  fried  brown, 
cut  up  into  morsels,  and  swimming  in  gravy.  The  company, 
being  seated  around  the  genial  board,  and  each  furnished 
with  a  fork,  evinced  their  dexterity  in  lanching  at  the  fattest 
pieces  in  this  mighty  dish ; — in  much  the  same  manner  as 
sailors  harpoon  porpoises  at  sea,  or  our  Indians  spear  salmon 
in  the  lakes.  Sometimes  the  table  was  graced  with  immense 
23 


266  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

apple-pies,  or  saucers  full  of  preserved  peaches  and  pears ; 
but  it  was  always  sure  to  boast  an  enormous  dish  of  balls  of 
sweetened  dough,  fried  in  hog's  fat,  and  called  dough-nuts, 
— a  delicious  kind  of  cake,  at  present  scarce  known  in  the 
city,  excepting  in  genuine  Dutch  families. 

The  tea  was  served  out  of  a  majestic  delft  teapot,  orna- 
mented with  paintings  of  fat  little  Dutch  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  tending  pigs — with  boats  sailing  in  the  air,  and 
houses  built  in  the  clouds,  and  sundry  other  ingenious  Dutch 
fantasies.  The  beaux  distinguished  themselves  by  their 
adroitness  in  replenishing  this  pot,  from  a  huge  copper  tea- 
kettle, which  would  have  made  the  pigmy  macaronies  of 
these  degenerate  days  sweat  merely  to  look  at  it.  T** 
sweeten  the  beverage,  a  lump  of  sugar  was  laid  beside  each 
cup ;  and  the  company  alternately  nibbled  and  sipped  with 
great  decorum,  until  an  improvement  was  introduced  by  a 
shrewd  and  economic  old  lady, — which  was,  to  suspend  a 
large  lump  directly  over  the  tea-table,  by  a  string  from  the 
ceiling,  so  that  it  could  be  swung  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

At  these  primitive  tea-parties,  the  utmost  propriety  and 
dignity  of  deportment  prevailed.  No  flirting  nor  coquetting 
no  gambling  of  old  ladies,  nor  hoyden  chattering  and  romping 
of  young  ones — no  self-satisfied  struttings  of  wealthy  gentle- 
men, with  their  brains  in  their  pockets,  nor  amusing  conceits, 
and  monkey  divertisements,  of  smart,  young  gentlemen,  with 
no  brains  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  the  young  ladies  seated 
themselves  demurely  in  their  rush-bottomed  chairs,  and  knit 
their  own  woollen  stockings ;  nor  ever  opened  their  lips,  ex- 
cepting to  say,  "Yes,  sir,"  or  "  Yes,  madam,"  to  any  question 
that  was  asked  them ;  behaving,  in  all  things,  like  decent, 
well  educated  damsels.  As  to  the  gentlemen,  each  of  them 
tranquilly  smoked  his  pipe,  and  seemed  lost  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  blue  and  white  tiles,  with  which  the  fire-places 
were  decorated. 

The  parties  broke  up  without  noise  and  without  confusion. 
They  were  carried  home  by  their  own  carriages,  that  is  to 
say,  by  the  vehicles  nature  had  provided  them,  excepting 
such  of  the  wealthy  as  could  afford  to  keep  a  wagon.  The 
gentlemen  gallantly  attended  their  fair  ones  to  their  respec- 
tive abodes,  and  took  leave  of  them  at  the  door. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  267 

LESSON  CXXI. 
The  Recluse. — Beattie. 

The  gusts  of  appetite,  the  clouds  of  care, 

And  storms  of  disappointment  all  o'erpast, 
Henceforth  no  earthly  hope  with  heaven  ^hall  share 

This  heart,  where  peace  serenely  shines  at  last. 

And  if  for  me  no  treasure  be  amassed. 
And  if  no  future  age  shall  hear  my  name, 

I  lurk  the  more  secure  from  Fortune's  blast. 
And  with  more  leisure  feed  this  pious  flame. 
Whose  rapture  far  transcends  the  fairest  hopes  of  fame. 

The  end  and  the  reward  of  toil  is  rest. 

Be  all  my  prayer  for  virtue  and  for  peace. 
Of  wealth  and  fame,  of  pomp  and  power  possessed, 

Who  ever  felt  his  weight  of  wo  decrease  1 

Ah !  what  avails  the  lore  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
The  lay,  heaven-prompted,  and  harmonious  string, 

The  dust  of  Ophir,  or  the  Tyrian  fleece. 
All  that  art,  fortune,  enterprise,  can  bring. 
If  envy,  scorn,  remorse,  or  pride,  the  bosom  wring  ? 

Let  vanity  adorn  the  marble  tomb 

With  trophies,  rhymes  and  scutcheons  of  renown, 
In  the  deep  dungeon  of  some  Gothic  dome, 

Where  night  and  desolation  ever  frown  ; 

Mine  be  the  breezy  hill  that  skirts  the  down, 
Where  a  green,  grassy  turf  is  all  I  crave. 

With  here  and  there  a  violet  bestrown. 
Fast  by  a  brook,  or  fountain's  murmuring  wave ; 
And  many  an  evening  sun  shine  sweetly  on  my  grave. 

And  thither  let  the  village  swain  repair. 

And,  light  of  heart,  the  village  maiden  gay, 

To  deck  with  flowers  her  half-dishevelled  hair, 
And  celebrate  the  merry  morn  of  May. 


ZG8  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

There  let  the  shepherd's  pipe,  the  live-long  day 
Fill  all  the  grove  with  love's  bewitching  wo ; 

And  when  mild  evening  comes  in  mantle  gray, 
Let  not  the  blooming  band  make  haste  to  go  ; 
No  ghost  nor  spell  my  long  and  last  abode  shall  know. 

For  though  I  fly  to  escape  from  Fortune's  rage. 
And  bear  the  scars  of  envy,  spite  and  scorn, 

Yet  with  mankind  no  horrid  war  I  wage, 

Yet  with  no  impious  spleen  my  breast  is  torn : 
For  virtue  lost,  and  ruined  man,  I  mourn. 

O  man,  creation's  pride,  Heaven's  darling  child. 
Whom  Nature's  best,  divinest  gifts  adorn. 

Why  from  thy  home  are  truth  and  joy  exiled, 
And  all  thy  favorite  haunts  with  blood  and  tears  defiled  ? 

Along  yon  glittering  sky  what  glory  streams ! 

What  majesty  attends  night's  lovely  queen ' 
Fair  laugh  our  valleys  in  the  vernal  beams ; 

And  mountains  rise,  and  oceans  roll  between, 

And  all  conspire  to  beautify  the  scene. 
But,  in  the  mental  world,  what  chaos  drear ! 

What  forms  of  mournful,  loathsome,  furious  mien ! 
Oh  !   when  shall  that  eternal  morn  appear, 
These  dreadful  forms  to  chase,  this  chaos  dark  to  clear  T 

O  thou,  at  whose  creative  smile,  yon  heaven, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  beauty,  life  and  light, 

Rose  from  the  abyss ;  when  dark  Confusion,  driven 
Down,  down  the  bottomless  profound  of  night, 
Fled,  where  he  ever  flies  thy  piercing  sight ! 

Oh !  glance  on  these  sad  shades  one  pitying  ray 
To  blast  the  fury  of  oppressive  might, — 

Melt  the  hard  heart  to  love  and  mercy's  sway, 
And  cheer  the  wandering  soul,  and  light  him  on  the  way. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  269 

LESSON  CXXII. 
Farewell  to  the  Dead. — Mrs.  Hemans 

Come  near  ! — ere  yet  the  dust 
Soil  the  bright  paleness  of  the  settled  brow, 
Look  on  your  brother,  and  embrace  him  now, 

In  still  and  solemn  trust : 
Come  near  ! — once  more  let  kindred  lips  be  pressed 
On  his  cold  cheek ;  then  bear  him  to  his  rest. 

Look  yet  on  this  young  face ! 
What  shall  the  beauty,  from  amongst  us  gone, 
Leave  of  its  image,  even  where  most  it  shone. 

Gladdening  its  hearth  and  race  ? 
Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  impressed— 
Come  near  !  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest. 

Ye  weep,  and  it  is  well  ; 
For  tears  befit  earth's  partings. — Yesterday 
Song  was  upon  the  lips  of  this  pale  clay. 

And  sunshine  seemed  to  dwell 
Where'er  he  moved — the  welcome  and  the  blessed— 
Now  gaze !   and  bear  the  silent  unto  rest. 

Look  yet  on  him,  whose  eye 
Meets  yours  no  more  in  sadness  or  in  mirth  1 
Was  he  not  fair  amidst  the  sons  of  earth. 

The  beings  born  to  die  ? 
But  not  where  death  has  power  may  love  be  blessed — 
Come  near  !  and  bear  ye  the  beloved  to  rest. 

How  may  the  mother's  heart 
Dwell  on  her  son,  and  dare  to  hope  again  1 
The  spring's  rich  promise  hath  been  given  in  vain. 

The  lovely  must  depart! 
Is  he  not  gone,  our  brightest  and  our  best  ? — 
Come  near !  and  bear  the  early-called  to  rest. 
23* 


270  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Look  on  him  !  is  he  laid 
To  slumber  from  the  harvest  or  the  chase? 
Too  still  and  sad  the  smile  upon  his  face ; 

Yet  that,  even  that,  must  fade ! 
Death  holds  not  long  unchanged  his  fairest  guest — 
Come  near !   and  bear  the  mortal  to  his  rest. 

His  voice  of  mirth  hath  ceased 
Amidst  the  vineyards  !  there  is  left  no  place 
For  him  whose  dust  receives  your  vain  embrace, 

At  the  gay  bridal  feast ! 
Earth  must  take  earth  to  moulder  on  her  breast — 
Come  near !  vi^eep  o'er  him  1  bear  him  to  his  rest. 

Yet  mourn  ye  not  as  they 
Whose  spirit's  light  is  quenched  1 — for  him  the  past 
Is  sealed.     He  may  not  fall,  he  may  not  cast 

His  birthright's  hope  away ! 
All  is  not  here  of  our  beloved  and  blessed — 
Leave  ye  the  sleeper  with  his  God  to  rest. 


LESSON   CXXHL 

Baneful  Effects  of  Intemperance  upon  Domestic  Life, — 
C.  Sprague. 

The  common  calamities  of  life  may  be  endured.  Poverty, 
sickness,  and  even  death,  may  be  metj  but  there  is  that 
which,  while  it  brings  all  these  with  it,  is  worse  than  all 
these  together.  When  the  husband  and  father  forgets  the 
duties  he  once  delighted  to  fulfil,  and,  by  slow  degrees,  be- 
comes the  creature  of  intemperance,  there  enters  into  his 
house  the  sorrow  that  rends  the  spirit,  that  cannot  be  allevi- 
ated, that  will  not  be  comforted. 

It  is  here,  above  all,  where  she,  who  has  ventured  every 
thing,  feels  that  every  thing  is  lost.  Woman,  silent-suffering, 
devoted  woman,  here  bends  to  her  direst  affliction.  The 
measure  of  her  wo  is,  in  truth,  full,  whose  husband  is  a 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  271 

drunkard.  Who  shall  protect  her,  when  he  is  her  insulter, 
her  oppressor?  What  shall  delight  her,  when  she  shrinks 
from  the  sight  of  his  face,  and  trembles  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice?  The  hearth  is  indeed  dark,  that  he  has  made  deso- 
late. There,  through  the  dull  midnight  hour,  her  griefs  are 
whispered  to  herself;  her  bruised  heart  bleeds  in  secret. 
There,  while  the  cruel  author  of  her  distress  is  drowned  in 
distant  revelry,  she  holds  her  solitary  vigil,  waiting,  yet 
dreading  his  return,  that  will  only  wring  from  her,  by  his 
unkindness,  tears  even  more  scalding  than  those  she  sheds 
over  his  transgression. 

To  fling  a  deeper  gloom  across  the  present,  memory  turns 
back,  and  broods  upon  the  past.  Like  the  recollection  to 
the  sun-stricken  pilgrim,  of  the  cool  spring  that  he  drank  at 
in  the  morning,  the  joys  of  other  days  come  over  her,  as  if 
only  to  mock  her  parched  and  weary  spirit.  She  recalls  the 
ardent  lover,  whose  graces  won  her  from  the  home  of  her 
infancy  ;  the  enraptured  father,  who  bent  with  such  delight 
over  his  new-born  children  ;  and  she  asks  if  this  can  really 
be  he ;  this  sunken  being,  who  has  now  nothing  for  her  but 
the  sot's  disgusting  brutality — nothing  for  those  abashed  and 
trembling  children,  but  the  sot's  disgusting  example ! 

Can  we  wonder,  that,  amid  these  agonizing  moments,  the 
tender  cords  of  violated  affection  should  snap  asunder?  that 
the  scorned  and  deserted  wife  should  confess,  "  there  is  no 
killing  like  that  which  kills  the  heart  ?"  that,  though  it  would 
have  been  hard  for  her  to  kiss,  for  the  last  time,  the  cold  lips 
of  her  dead  husband,  and  lay  his  body  forever  in  the  dust,  it 
is  harder  to  behold  him  so  debasing  life,  that  even  his 
death  would  be  greeted  in  mercy  ?  Had  he  died  in  the 
light  of  his  goodness,  bequeathing  to  his  family  the  inherit- 
ance of  an  untarnished  name,  the  example  of  virtues  that 
should  blossom  for  his  sons  and  daughters  from  the  tomb — 
though  she  would  have  wept  bitterly  indeed,  the  tears  of 
grief  would  not  have  been  also  the  tears  of  shame.  But  to 
behold  him  fallen  away  from  the  station  he  once  adorned, 
degraded  from  eminence  to  ignominy — at  home,  turning  his 
dwelling  to  darkness,  and  its  holy  endearments  to  mockery — 
abroad,  thrust  from  the  companionship  of  the  worthy,  a  self- 


272  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

branded  outlaw — this  is  the  wo  that  the  wife  feels  is  more 
dreadful  than  death, — that  she  mourns  over  as  worse  than 
widowhood. 

There  is  yet  another  picture  behind,  from  the  exhibition 
of  which  I  would  willingly  be  spared.  I  have  ventured  to 
point  to  those,  who  daily  force  themselves  before  the  world  ; 
but  there  is  one  whom  the  world  does  not  know  of— who 
hides  herself  from  prying  eyes,  even  in  the  innermost  sanctu- 
ary of  the  domestic  temple.  Shall  I  dare  to  rend  the  veil 
that  hangs  between,  and  draw  her  forth? — the  priestess 
dying  amid  her  unholy  rites — the  sacrificer  and  the  sacrifice  t 

We  compass  sea  and  land,  we  brave  danger  and  death,  to 
snatch  the  poor  victim  of  heathen  superstition  from  the 
burning  pile — and  it  is  well ;  but  shall  we  not  also  save  the 
lovely  ones  of  our  own  household,  from  immolating  on  this 
foul  altar,  not  alone  the  perishing  body,  but  all  the  worshipped 
graces  of  her  sex — the  glorious  attributes  of  hallowed  wo- 
manhood ! 

Imagination's  gloomiest  reverie  never  conceived  of  a  more 
revolting  object,  than  that  of  a  wife  and  mother  defiling,  in 
her  own  person,  the  fairest  work  of  her  God,  and  setting  at 
nought  the  holy  engagements  for  which  he  created  her.  Her 
-husband — who  shall  heighten  his  joys,  and  dissipate  his 
cares,  and  alleviate  his  sorrows  1  She,  who  has  robbed  him 
of  all  joy,  who  is  the  source  of  his  deepest  care,  who  lives 
his  sharpest  sorrow  1  These  are,  indeed,  the  wife's  delights ; 
but  they  are  not  hers.  Her  children — who  shall  watch  over 
their  budding  virtues,  and  pluck  up  the  young  weeds  of  pas- 
sion and  vice  1  She,  in  whose  own  bosom  every  thing  beau- 
tiful has  withered,  every  thing  vile  grows  rank  ?  Who  shall 
teach  them  to  bend  their  little  knees  in  devotion,  and  repeat 
their  Savior's  prayer  against  "  temptation  ?"  She,  who  is 
herself  temptation's  fettered  slave?  These  are  truly  the 
mother's  labors ;  but  they  are  not  hers.  Connubial  love  and 
maternal  tenderness  bloom  no  longer  for  her.  A  worm  has 
gnawed  into  her  heart,  that  dies  only  with  its  prey — the 
worm  intemperance. 


YOUNG   LADIES'  CLASS   BOOK.  373 

LESSON   CXXIV. 

Nighty — a  Field  of  Battle. — Shelley. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  The  balmiest  sigh, 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  Evening's  ear, 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude, 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon  vault. 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 
Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls, 
Seems  like  a  canopy,  which  love  had  spread 
To  curtain  the  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills. 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend. 
So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam;  yon  castled  steep. 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly,  that  rapt  Fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace  ; — all  form  a  scene. 
Where  musing  Solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness ; 
Where  Silence,  undisturbed,  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still ! 

The  orb  of  day. 
In  southern  climes,  o'er  ocean's  waveless  field. 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling :  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep ;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day  ; 
And  Vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blackened  waters ;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully  ; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinions  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge ;  the  pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks  his  prey ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns — the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 


274  YdUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 
That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven  ? — that  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?     The  stars  are  quenched 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that  gathers  round! 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  peals, 
In  countless  echoes,  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  Midnight  on  her  starry  throne! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din  ;  the  jar. 
Frequent  and  frightful,  of  the  bursting  bomb  ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout, 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage  !     Loud,  and  more  loud. 
The  discord  grows,  till  pale  Death  shuts  the  scene, 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud.     Of  all  the  men, 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there, 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health — of  all  the  hearts, 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there — 
How  few  survive  !  how  few  are  beating  now ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widowed  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
y  With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  morn 
Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene  ;  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.     There  tracks  of  blood, 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered  arms, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful  path 
Of  the  outsallying  victors  :'  far  behind, 
Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen — 
Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day. 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 


YOUNG  L4DIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  275 

LESSON  CXXV. 

The  Uncalled  Avenger. — London  Museum. 

The  return  of  the  victorious  Russian  army,  which  had 
conquered  Finland,  was  attended  with  a  circumstance  which, 
it  is  true,  has  at  all  times  been  usual  in  the  train  of  large 
armies,  but  which  naturally  took  place  to  a  much  greater 
extent,  in  these  high  northern  latitudes,  where  the  hand  of 
man  has  so  imperfectly  subdued  the  original  savageness  of 
the  soil.  Whole  droves  of  famished  bears  and  wolves  follow- 
ed the  troops,  on  their  return  to  the  south,  to  feed  on  the 
chance  prey  afforded  by  the  carcasses  of  the  artillery  and 
baggage  horses  that  dropped  on  the  road.  In  consequence 
of  this,  the  province  of  Esthonia,  to  which  several  regiments 
directed  their  march,  was  so  overrun  with  these  animals,  as 
greatly  to  endanger  the  safety  of  travellers. 

In  a  single  circle  of  the  government,  no  less  than  forty  per- 
sons, of  different  ages,  were  enumerated,  who  had  been  devour- 
ed during  the  winter  by  these  ravenous  beasts.  It  became 
hazardous  to  venture  alone  and  unarmed  into  the  uninhabited 
parts  of  the  country ;  nevertheless,  an  Esthonian  country- 
woman boldly  undertook  a  journey  to  a  distant  relation,  not 
only  without  any  male  companion,  but  with  three  children, 
the  youngest  of  which  was  still  an  infant.  A  light  sledge, 
drawn  by  one  horse,  received  the  little  party ;  the  way  was 
narrow,  but  well  beaten ;  the  snow,  on  each  side,  deep  and 
impassable  ;  and  to  turn  back,  without  danger  of  sticking 
fast,  not  to  be  thought  of 

The  first  half  of  the  journey  was  passed  without  accident. 
The  road  now  ran  along  the  skirts  of  a  pine  forest,  when  the 
traveller  suddenly  perceived  a  suspicious  noise  behind  her. 
Casting  back  a  look  of  alarm,  she  saw  a  troop  of  wolves 
trotting  along  the  road,  the  number  of  which  her  fears  hin- 
dered her  from  estimating.  To  escape  by  flight  is  her  first 
thought ;  and,  with  unsparing  whip,  she  urges  into  a  gallop 
the  horse,  which  itself  snuffs  the  danger.  Soon  a  couple  of 
the  strongest  and  most  hungry  of  the  beasts  appear  at  her 
side,  and  seem  disposed  to  stop  the  way.     Though  their  in- 


276  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

tention  seems  to  be  only  to  attack  the  horse,  yet  the  safety 
both  of  the  mother  and  of  the  children,  depends  on  the  pres- 
ervation of  the  animal.  The  danger  raises  its  value;  it 
seems  entitled  to  claim  for  its  preservation  an  extraordinary 
sacrifice. 

As  the  mariner  throws  overboard  his  richest  treasures  to 
appease  the  raging  waves,  so  here  has  necessity  reached  a 
height,  at  which  the  emotions  of  the  heart  are  dumb  before 
the  dark  commands  of  instinct;  the  latter  alone  suffers  the 
unhappy  woman  to  act  in  this  distress.  She  seizes  her  second 
child,  whose  bodily  infirmities  have  often  made  it  an  object 
of  anxious  care,  whose  cry  even  now  offends  her  ear,  and 
threatens  to  whet  the  appetite  of  the  blood-thirsty  monsters — 
she  seizes  it  with  an  involuntary  motion,  and,  before  the 
mother  is  conscious  of  what  she  is  doing,  it  is  cast  out, — and 
— enough  of  the  horrid  tale ! 

The  last  cry  of  the  victim  still  sounded  in  her  ear,  when 
she  discovered  that  the  troop,  which  had  remained  some 
minutes  behind,  again  closely  pressed  on  the  sfedge.  The 
anguish  of  her  soul  increases,  for  again  the  murder-breathing 
forms  are  at  her  side.  Pressing  the  infant  to  her  heaving 
bosom,  she  casts  a  look  on  her  boy,  four  years  old,  who 
crowds  closer  and  closer  to  her  knee  : — "  But,  dear  mother, 
I  am  good,  am  not  I  ?  You  will  not  throw  me  into  the  snow, 
like  the  bawler  ?" — *'  And  yet  1  and  yet !"  cried  the  wretched 
woman,  in  the  wild  tumult  of  despair — "  thou  art  good,  but 
God  is  merciful ! — Away  !" — The  dreadful  deed  was  done. 
To  escape  the  furies  that  raged  within  her,  the  woman  ex- 
erted herself,  with  powerless  lash,  to  accelerate  the  gallop  of 
the  exhausted  horse. 

With  the  thick  and  gloomy  forest  before  and  behind  her, 
and  the  nearer  and  nearer  tramping  of  her  ravenous  pursu- 
ers, she  almost  sinks  under  her  anguish ;  only  the  recollection 
of  the  infant  that  she  holds  in  her  arms — only  the  desire  to 
save  it,  occupies  her  heart,  and  with  difficulty  enables  it  to 
bear  up.  She  did  not  venture  to  look  behind  her.  All  at 
once,  two  rough  paws  are  laid  on  her  shoulders,  and  the 
wide-open,  bloody  jaws  of  an  enormous  wolf,  hung  over  her 
head.  It  is  the  most  ravenous  beast  of  the  troop,  which, 
having  partly  missed  its  leap  at  the  sledge,  is  dragged  along 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  277 

with  it,  in  vain  seeking  with  its  hinder  legs  for  a  resting 
place,  to  enable  it  to  get  wholly  on  to  the  frail  vehicle. 
The  weight  of  the  body  of  the  monster  draws  the  woman 
backwards — her  arms  rise  with  the  child :  half  torn  from  her, 
half  abandoned,  it  becomes  the  prey  of  the  ravening  beast, 
which  hastily  carries  it  off  into  the  forest.  Exhausted,  stun- 
ned, senseless,  she  drops  the  reins,  and  continues  her  journey, 
ignorant  whether  she  is  delivered  from  her  pursuers. 

Meantime  the  forest  grows  thinner,  and  an  insulated  farm- 
house, to  which  a  side  roads  leads,  appears  at  a  moderate 
distance.  The  horse,  left  to  itself,  follows  this  new  path : 
it  enters  through  an  open  gate ;  panting  and  foaming,  it 
stands  still ;  and  amidst  a  circle  of  persons,  who  crowd  round 
with  good-natured  surprise,  the  unhappy  woman  recovers 
from  her  stupefaction,  to  throw  herself,  with  a  loud  scream 
of  anguish  and  horror,  into  the  arms  of  the  nearest  human 
being,  who  appears  to  her  as  a  guardian  angel.  All  leave 
their  work — the  mistress  of  the  house  the  kitchen,  the 
thresher  the  barn,  the  eldest  son  of  the  family,  with  his  axe 
in  his  hand,  the  wood  which  he  has  just  cleft — to  assist  the 
unfortunate  woman ;  and,  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
pity,  to  learn,  by  a  hundred  inquiries,  the  circumstances  of 
her  singular  appearance.  Refreshed  by  whatever  can  be 
procured  at  the  moment,  the  stranger  gradually  recovers  the 
power  of  speech,  and  ability  to  give  an  intelligible  account 
of  the  dreadful  trial  which  she  has  undergone. 

The  insensibility,  with  which  fear  and  distress  had  steeled 
her  heart,  begins  to  disappear ;  but  new  terrors  seize  her ; 
the  dry  eye  seeks  in  vain  a  tear ;  she  is  on  the  brink  of 
boundless  misery.  But  her  narrative  had  also  excited  con- 
flicting feelings  in  the  bosoms  of  her  auditors ;  though  pity, 
commiseration,  dismay  and  abhorrence,  imposed  alike  on  all 
the  same  involuntary  silence.  One,  only,  unable  to  com- 
mand the  overpowering  emotions  of  his  heart,  advanced 
before  the  rest ;  it  was  the  young  man  with  the  axe :  his 
cheeks  were  pale  with  affright ;  his  wildly-rolling  eyes  flashed 
ill-omened  fire.  "  What !"  he  exclaimed ;  "  three  children — 
thy  own  children !  the  sickly  innocent,  the  imploring  boy, 
the  infant  suckling,  all  cast  out  by  the  mother  to  be  devoured 
by  the  wolves ! — Woman,  thou  art  unworthy  to  live !"  And, 
24 


278  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

at  the  same  instant,  the  uplifted  steel  descends,  with  resistless 
force,  on  the  skull  of  the  wretched  woman,  who  falls  dead  at 
his  feet.  The  perpetrator  then  calmly  wipes  the  blood  off 
the  murderous  axe,  and  returns  to  his  work. 

The  dreadful  tale  speedily  came  to  the  knowledge  of  the 
magistrates,  who  caused  the  uncalled  avenger  to  be  arrested 
and  brought  to  trial.  He  was,  of  course,  sentenced  to  the 
punishment  ordained  by  the  laws;  but  the  sentence  still 
wanted  the  sanction  of  the  emperor.  Alexander  caused  all 
the  circumstances  of  this  crime,  so  extraordinary  in  the  mo- 
tives in  which  it  originated,  to  be  reported  to  him,  in  the 
most  careful  and  detailed  manner.  Here,  or  nowhere,  he 
thought  himself  called  on  to  exercise  the  godlike  privilege  of 
mercy,  by  commuting  the  sentence,  passed  on  the  criminal, 
into  a  condemnation  to  labor  not  very  severe. 


LESSON  CXXVI. 

Hymn  before  Sun-rise,  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouny. — Coleridob. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course  1 — so  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron,  at  thy  base. 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form, 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !  Around  thee  and  above, 
Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !     But,  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity. 

0  dread  and  silent  mount !  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer,* 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  279 

Yet,  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, — 
Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy, — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused. 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there. 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven  1 

Awake,  my  soul !     Not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest ;  not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou,  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink, — 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald,  wake!  O  wake!   and  utter  praise! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  1 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded — and  the  silence  came — 
*'  Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest?" 

Ye  ice-falls !  ye,  that,  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice,  • 


280  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 

Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?     Who  bade  the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  with  living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? — 

"  God !"  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 

Answer  ;  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  *'  God  !" 

"  God  !"  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice ! 

Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 

And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 

And,  in  their  perilous  fall,  shall  thunder,  "  God  1" 

Ye  living  flowers,  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats,  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 
Utter  forth  "  God  !"  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou,  too,  hoar  mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou,  too,  again,  stupendo.us  mountain  !  thou 
That, — as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, — 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me, — rise,  O  ever  rise ! 
Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth. 
Thou  kingly  spirit,  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch,  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
"  Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  281 

LESSON  CXXVII. 
The  Soldier's  Widow. — Willis. 

Wol  for  my  vine-clad  home ! 
That  it  should  ever  be  so  dark  to  me, 
With  its  bright  threshold,  and  its  whispering  tree  I 

That  I  should  ever  come, 
Fearing  the  lonely  echo  of  a  tread. 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  my  glorious  dead ! 

Lead  on,  my  orphan  boy; 
Thy  home  is  not  so  desolate  to  thee. 
And  the  low  shiver  in  the  linden  tree 

May  bring  to  thee  a  joy  ; 
But,  oh !  how  dark  is  the  bright  home  before  thee, 
To  her  who  with  a  joyous  spirit  bore  thee ! 

Lead  on  ;  for  thou  art  now 
My  sole  remaining  helper.     God  hath  spoken, 
And  the  strong  heart  I  leaned  upon  is  broken ; 

And  I  have  seen  his  brow, 
The  forehead  of  my  upright  one  and  just, 
Trod  by  the  hoof  of  battle  to  the  dust. 

He  will  not  meet  thee  there. 
Who  blessed  thee  at  the  eventide,  my  son ; 
And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night  steal  on, 

He  will  not  call  to  prayer. 
The  lips  that  melted,  giving  thee  to  God, 
Are  in  the  icy  keeping  of  the  sod  ! 

Ay,  my  own  boy,  thy  sire 
Is  with  the  sleepers  of  the  valley  cast. 
And  the  proud  glory  of  my  life  hath  past, 

With  his  high  glance  of  fire. 
Wo !  that  the  linden  and  the  vine  should  bloom, 
And  a  just  man  be  gathered  to  the  tomb  ! 
24* 


232         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Why,  bear  them  proudly,  boy, — 
It  is  the  sword  he  girded  to  his  thigh, 
It  is  the  helm  he  wore  in  victory ; 

And  shall  we  have  no  joy  ? 
For  thy  green  vales,  O  Switzerland,  he  died  ; 
I  will  forget  my  sorrow — in  my  pride ! 


LESSON  CXXVIII. 

Extract  from  "  Suggestions  on  Education." — 
Miss  C.  E.  Beecher. 

Woman  has  been  but  little  aware  of  the  high  incitements, 
that  should  stimulate  to  the  cultivation  of  her  noblest  powers. 
The  world  is  no  longer  to  be  governed  by  physical  force,  but 
by  the  influence  which  mind  exerts  over  mind.  How  are 
the  great  springs  of  action,  in  the  political  world,  put  in  mo- 
tion 1  Often  by  the  secret  workings  of  a  single  mind,  that 
in  retirement  plans  its  schemes,  and  comes  forth  to  execute 
them  only  by  presenting  motives  of  prejudice,  passion,  self- 
interest  or  pride,  to  operate  on  other  minds. 

Now,  the  world  is  chiefly  governed  by  motives  that  men 
are  ashamed  to  own.  When  do  we  find  mankind  acknowl- 
edging, that  their  efforts  m  political  life  are  the  offspring  of 
pride,  and  the  desire  of  self-aggrandizement  ?  And  yet  who 
hesitates  to  believe  that  this  is  true  1 

But  there  is  a  class  of  motives,  that  men  are  not  only  will- 
ing, but  proud  to  own.  Man  does  not  willingly  yield  to 
force ;  he  is  ashamed  to  own  he  can  yield  to  fear ;  he  will 
not  acknowledge  his  motives  of  pride,  prejudice,  or  passion. 
But  none  are  unwilling  to  own  they  can  be  governed  by 
reason ;  even  the  worst  will  boast  of  being  regulated  by  con- 
science ;  and  where  is  the  person  who  is  ashamed  to  own 
the  influence  of  the  kind  and  generous  emotions  of  the 
heart. 

Here,  then,  is  the  only  lawful  field  for  the  ambition  of  our 
sex.  Woman,  in  all  her  relations,  is  bound  to  "  honor  and 
obey"  those,  on  whom  she  depends  for  protection  and  support; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  283 

nor  does  the  truly  feminine  mind  desire  to  exceed  this  limita- 
tion of  Heaven.  But  where  the  dictates  of  authority  may 
never  control,  the  voice  of  reason  and  affection  may  ever 
convince  and  persuade ;  and  while  others  govern  by  motives, 
that  mankind  are  ashamed  to  own,  the  dominion  of  woman 
may  be  based  on  influence,  that  the  heart  is  proud  to  ac- 
knowledge. 

And  if  it  is  indeed  the  truth,  that  reason  and  conscience 
guide  to  the  only  path  of  happiness,  and  if  affection  will  gain 
a  hold  on  these  powerful  principles,  which  can  be  attained 
no  other  way,  what  high  and  holy  motives  are  presented  to 
woman  for  cultivating  her  noblest  powers !  The  develop- 
ment of  the  reasoning  faculties,  the  fascinations  of  a  purified 
imagination,  the  charms  of  a  cultivated  taste,  the  quick  per- 
ceptions of  an  active  mind,  the  power  of  exhibiting  truth 
and  reason,  by  perspicuous  and  animated  conversation  and 
writing, — all  these  can  be  employed  by  woman  as  much  as  by 
man.  And  with  these  attainable  facilities  for  gaining  influ- 
ence, woman  has  already  received,  from  the  hand  of  her 
Maker,  those  warm  affections  and  quick  susceptibilities, 
which  can  most  surely  gain  the  empire  of  the  heart. 

Woman  has  never  wakened  to  her  highest  destinies  and 
holiest  hopes.  She  has  yet  to  learn  the  purifying  and  blessed 
influence,  she  may  gain  and  maintain  over  the  intellect  and 
affections  of  the  human  mind.  Though  she  may  not  teach 
from  the  portico,  nor  thunder  from  the  forum,  in  her  secret 
retirements  she  may  form  and  send  forth  the  sages  that  shall 
govern  and  renovate  the  world.  Though  she  may  not  gird 
herself  for  bloody  conflict,  nor  sound  the  trumpet  of  war, 
she  may  inwrap  herself  in  the  panoply  of  Heaven,  and  send 
the  thrill  of  benevolence  through  a  thousand  youthful  hearts. 
Though  she  may  not  enter  the  lists  in  legal  collision,  nor 
sharpen  her  intellect  amid  the  passions  and  conflicts  of  men, 
she  may  teach  the  law  of  kindness,  and  hush  up  the  discords 
and  conflicts  of  life.  Though  she  may  not  be  clothed  as  the 
ambassador  of  Heaven,  nor  minister  at  the  altar  of  God, 
as  a  secret  angel  of  mercy,  she  may  teach  its  will,  and  cause 
to  ascend  the  humble,  but  most  accepted  sacrifice. 

It  is  believed  that  the  time  is  coming,  when  educated 


284  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

females  will  not  be  satisfied  with  the  present  objects  of  their 
low  ambition.  When  a  woman  now  leaves  the  immediate 
business  of  her  own  education,  how  often,  how  generally,  do 
we  find  her  sinking  down  into  almost  useless  inactivity !  To 
enjoy  the  social  circle,  to  accomplish  a  little  sewing,  a  little 
reading,  a  little  domestic  duty,  to  while  away  her  hours  in 
self-indulgence,  or  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  domestic  life, — 
these  are  the  highest  objects  at  which  many  a  woman  of  ele- 
vated mind  and  accomplished  education  aims.  And  what 
does  she  find  of  sufficient  interest  or  importance  to  call  forth 
her  cultivated  energies  and  warm  affections  ? 

But  when  the  cultivation  and  development  of  the  immor- 
tal mind  shall  be  presented  to  woman  as  her  especial  and 
delightful  duty,  and  that,  too,  whatever  be  her  relations  in 
life  ;  when,  by  example,  and  by  experience,  she  shall  have 
learned  her  power  over  the  intellect  and  the  affections  ;  when 
the  enthusiasm,  that  wakens  energy  and  interest  in  all  other 
professions,  shall  animate  in  this ;  then  we  shall  not  find  wo- 
man returning  from  the  precincts  of  learning  and  wisdom, 
merely  to  pass  lightly  away  the  bright  hours  of  her  maturing 
youth.  We  shall  not  so  often  find  her  seeking  the  light 
device,  to  embroider  on  muslin  and  lace  ;  but  we  shall  see 
her,  with  the  delighted  glow  of  benevolence,  seeking  for 
immortal  minds,  whereon  she  may  fasten  durable  and  holy 
impressions,  that  shall  never  be  eff'aced  nor  wear  away. 


LESSON  CXXIX. 

Female  Accomplishments. — Hannah  More. 

A  YOUNG  lady  may  excel  in  speaking  French  and  Italian ; 
may  repeat  a  few  passages  from  a  volume  of  extracts  ;  play 
like  a  professor,  and  sing  like  a  siren ;  have  her  dressing-room 
decorated  with  her  own  drawing,  tables,  stands,  flower-pots, 
screens  and  cabinets ;  nay,  she  may  dance  like  Sempronia 
herself,  and  yet  we  shall  insist,  that  she  may  have  been  very 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


285 


badly  educated.  I  am  far  from  meaning  to  set  no  value 
whatever  on  any  or  all  of  these  qualifications ;  they  are  all 
of  them  elegant,  and  many  of  them  properly  tend  to  the 
perfecting  of  a  polite  education.  These  things,  in  their 
measure  and  degree,  may  be  done ;  but  there  are  others, 
which  should  not  be  left  undone.  Many  things  are  becoming, 
but  "one  thing  is  needful."  Besides,  as  the  world  seems  to 
be  fully  apprized  of  the  value  of  whatever  tends  to  embellish 
life,  there  is  less  occasion  here  to  insist  on  its  importance. 

But,  though  a  well-bred  young  lady  may  lawfully  learn 
most  of  the  fashionable  arts ;  yet,  let  me  ask,  does  it  seem  to 
be  the  true  end  of  education,  to  make  women  of  fashion 
dancers,  singers,  players,  painters,  actresses,  sculptors,  gild- 
ers, varnishers,  engravers  and  embroiderers?  Most  men 
are  commonly  destined  to  some  profession,  and  their  minds 
are  consequently  turned  each  to  its  respective  object.  Would 
it  not  be  strange,  if  they  were  called  out  to  exercise  their 
profession,  or  to  set  up  their  trade,  with  only  a  little  general 
knowledge  of  the  trades  and  professions  of  all  other  men, 
and  without  any  previous  definite  application  to  their  own 
peculiar  calling  ? 

The  profession  of  ladies,  to  which  the  bent  of  their  in- 
struction should  be  turned,  is  that  of  daughters,  wives,  moth- 
ers, and  mistresses  of  families.  They  should  be,  therefore, 
trained  with  a  view  to  these  several  conditions,  and  be  fur- 
nished with  a  stock  of  ideas,  and  principles,  and  qualifications, 
and  habits,  ready  to  be  applied  and  appropriated,  as  occasion 
may  demand,  to  each  of  these  respective  situations.  For 
though  the  arts,  which  merely  embellish  life,  must  claim  ad- 
miration ;  yet,  when  a  man  of  sense  comes  to  marry,  it  is  a 
companion  whom  he  wants,  and  not  an  artist.  It  is  not 
merely  a  creature  who  can  paint,  and  play,  and  sing,  and 
draw,  and  dress,  and  dance ;  it  is  a  being  who  can  comfort 
and  counsel  him ;  one  who  can  reason,  and  reflect,  and  feel, 
and  judge,  and  discourse,  and  discriminate ;  one  who  can 
assist  him  in  his  affairs,  lighten  his  cares,  soothe  his  sorrows, 
purify  his  joys,  strengthen  his  principles,  and  educate  his 
children. 


286  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  CXXX. 
To  the  Evening  Wind. — Bryant. 

Spirit,  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now. 

Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high  their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea ! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 

Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 
And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 

Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 
And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound. 

Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 
Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, 
God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest. 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and  rouse 

The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest. 
Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 

The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast; 
Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  'twixt  the  o'ershadowing  branches  and  the  grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they,  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK,  287 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

That  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore. 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 

Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once  more; 
Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange. 

Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem  x 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 


LESSON  CXXXI. 

To  the  Ursa  Major. — H.  Ware,  Jr. 

With  what  a  stately  and  majestic  step 
That  glorious  constellation  of  the  north 
Treads  its  eternal  circle !  going  forth 
Its  princely  way  amongst  the  stars  in  slow 
And  silent  brightness.     Mighty  one,  all  hail ! 
I  joy  to  see  thee,  on  thy  glowing  path. 
Walk,  like  some  stout  and  girded  giant — stern, 
Unwearied,  resolute,  whose  toiling  foot 
Disdains  to  loiter  on  its  destined  way. 
The  other  tribes  forsake  their  midnight  track, 
And  rest  their  weary  orbs  beneath  the  wave ; 
But  thou  dost  never  close  thy  burning  eye. 
Nor  stay  thy  steadfast  step.     But  on,  still  on. 
While  systems  change,  and  suns  retire,  and  worlds 
Slumber  and  wake,  thy  ceaseless  march  proceeds. 
The  near  horizon  tempts  to  rest  in  vain. 
Thou,  faithful  sentinel,  dost  never  quit 
Thy  long-appointed  watch  ;  but,  sleepless  still, 
Dost  guard  the  fixed  light  of  the  universe, 
And  bid  the  north  forever  know  its  place. 

Ages  have  witnessed  thy  devoted  trust,  * 

Unchanged,  unchanging.     When  the  sons  of  God 
Sent  forth  that  shout  of  joy  which  rang  through  heaten, 


288  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  echoed  from  the  outer  spheres  that  bound 

The  illimitable  universe,  thy  voice 

Joined  the  high  chorus ;  from  thy  radiant  orbs 

The  glad  cry  sounded,  swelling  to  His  praise, 

Who  thus  had  cast  another  sparkling  gem, 

Little,  but  beautiful,  amid  the  crowd 

Of  splendors  that  enrich  his  firmament. 

As  thou  art  now,  so  wast  thou  then  the  same. 

Ages  have  rolled  their  course,  and  time  grown  grayj 
The  earth  has  gathered  to  her  womb  again. 
And  yet  again,  the  myriads,  that  were  born 
Of  her, uncounted,  unremembered  tribes. 
The  seas  have  changed  their  beds ;  the  eternal  hills 
Have  stooped  with  age  ;  the  solid  continents 
Have  left  their  banks ;  and  man's  imperial  works — 
The  toil,  pride,  strength  of  kingdoms,  which  had  flung 
Their  haughty  honors  in  the  face  of  heaven, 
As  if  immortal — have  been  swept  away — 
Shattered  and  mouldering,  buried  and  forgot. 
But  time  has  shed  no  dimness  on  thy  front. 
Nor  touched  the  firmness  of  thy  tread  ;  youth,  strength 
And  beauty  still  are  thine — as  clear,  as  bright, 
As  when  the  almighty  Former  sent  thee  forth. 
Beautiful  offspring  of  his  curious  skill, 
To  watch  earth's  northern  beacon,  and  proclaim 
The  eternal  chorus  of  eternal  Love. 

I  wonder  as  I  gaze.     That  stream  of  light, 
Undimmed,  unquenched, — ^just  as  I  see  it  now, — 
Has  issued  from  those  dazzling  points,  through  years 
That  go  back  far  into  eternity. 
Exhaustless  flood  !  forever  spent,  renewed 
Forever !     Yea,  and  those  refulgent  drops, 
Which  now  descend  upon  my  lifted  eye. 
Left  their  far  fountain  twice  three  years  ago. 
While  those  winged  particles,  whose  speed  outstrips 
The  flight  of  thought,  were  on  their  way,  the  earth 
Compassed  its  tedious  circuit  round  and  round, 
And,  in  the  extremes  of  annual  change,  beheld 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  28J) 

Six  autumns  fade,  six  springs  renew  their  bloom. 

So  far  from  earth  those  mighty  orbs  revolve  ! 

So  vast  the  void  through  which  their  beams  descend ! 

Yea,  glorious  lamps  of  God,  He  may  have  quenched 
Your  ancient  flames,  and  bid  eternal  night 
Rest  on  your  spheres ;  and  yet  no  tidings  reach 
This  distant  planet.     Messengers  still  come 
Laden  with  your  far  fire,  and  we  may  seem 
To  see  your  lights  still  burning ;  while  their  blaze 
But  hides  the  black  wreck  of  extinguished  realms, 
Where  anarchy  and  darkness  long  have  reigned. 

Yet  what  is  this,  which  to  the  astonished  mind    - 
Seems  measureless,  and  which  the  baffled  thought 
Confounds  ?     A  span,  a  point,  in  those  domains 
Which  the  keen  eye  can  traverse.     Seven  stars 
Dwell  in  that  brilliant  cluster,  and  the  sight  ,^; 

Embraces  all  at  once ;  yet  each  from  each 
Recedes  as  far  as  each  of  them  from  earth. 
And  every  star  from  every  other  burns 
No  less  remote.     From  the  profound  of  heaven, 
Untravelled  even  in  thought,  keen,  piercing  rays 
Dart  through  the  void,  revealing  to  the  sense 
Systems  and  worlds  unnumbered.     Take  the  glass 
And  search  the  skies.     The  opening  skies  pour  down 
Upon  your  gaze  thick  showers  of  sparkling  fire — 
Stars,  crowded,  thronged,  in  regions  so  remote, 
That  their  swift  beams — the  swiftest  things  that  be — 
Have  travelled  centuries  on  their  flight  to  earth. 
Earth,  sun,  and  nearer  constellations,  what 
Are  ye,  amid  this  infinite  extent 
And  multitude  of  God's  most  infinite  works ! 

And  these  are  suns ! — vast,  central,  living  fires. 
Lords  of  dependent  systems,  kings  of  worlds 
That  wait  as  satellites  upon  their  power, 
And  flourish  in  their  smile.     Awake,  my  soul. 
And  meditate  the  wonder  !     Countless  suns 
Blaze  round  thee,  leading  forth  their  countless  worlds ! 
25 


290  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Worlds,  in  whose  bosoms  living  things  rejoice, 
And  drink  the  bliss  of  being  from  the  fount 
Of  all-pervading  Love.     What  mind  can  know, 
What  tongue  can  utter,  all  their  multitudes  ! 
Thus  numberless  in  numberless  abodes ! 
Known  but  to  thee,  blessed  Father  !     Thine  they  are, 
Thy  children  and  thy  care  ;  and  none  o'erlooked 
Of  thee  !  — .no,  not  the  humblest  soul  that  dwells 
Upon  the  humblest  globe,  which  wheels  its  course 
Amid  the  giant  glories  of  the  sky, 
Like  the  mean  mote  that  dances  in  the  beam 
Amongst  the  mirrored  lamps,  which  fling 
Their  wasteful  splendor  from  the  palace  wall. 
None,  none  escape  the  kindness  of  thy  care ; 
All  compassed  underneath  thy  spacious  wing. 
Each  fed  and  guided  by  thy  powerful  hand. 

Tell  me,  ye  splendid  orbs,  as,  from  your  throne, 
Ye  mark  the  rolling  provinces  that  own 
Your  sway — what  beings  fill  those  bright  abodes  1 
How  formed,  how  gifted  1  what  their  powers,  their  state, 
Their  happiness,  their  wisdom  ?     Do  they  bear 
The  stamp  of  human  nature  ?     Or  has  God 
Peopled  those  purer  realms  with  lovelier  forms 
And  more  celestial  minds  ?     Does  Innocence 
Still  wear  her  native  and  untainted  bloom  ? 
Or  has  Sin  breathed  his  deadly  blight  abroad, 
And  sowed  corruption  in  those  fairy  bowers  ? 
Has  War  trod  o'er  them  with  his  foot  of  fire  ? 
And  Slavery  forged  his  chains?  and  Wrath  and  Hate, 
And  sordid  Selfishness,  and  cruel  Lust, 
Leagued  their  base  bands  to  tread  out  light  and  truth. 
And  scattered  wo  where  Heaven  had  planted  joy? 
Or  are  they  yet  all  paradise,  unfallen 
And  uncorrupt  1  existence  one  long  joy. 
Without  disease  upon  the  frame,  or  sin 
Upon  the  heart,  or  weariness  of  life — 
Hope  never  quenched,  and  age  unknown, 
And  death  unfeared ;  while  fresh  and  fadeless  youth 
Glows  in  the  light  from  God's  near  throne  of  love  ? 


r 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  29] 


Open  your  lips,  ye  wonderful  and  fair ! 
Speak,  speak  !  the  mysteries  of  those  living  worlds 
Unfold  ! — No  language  ?     Everlasting  light, 
And  everlasting  silence  ?— Yet  the  eye 
May  read  and  understand.     The  hand  of  God 
Has  written  legibly  what  man  may  know — 
The  glory  of  the  Maker.     There  it  shines, 
Ineffable,  unchangeable  ;  and  man, 
Bound  to  the  surface  of  this  pigmy  globe. 
May  know  and  ask  no  more.     In  other  days, 
When  death  shall  give  the  encumbered  spirit  wings, 
Its  range  shall  be  extended;  it  shall  roam, 
Perchance,  amongst  those  vast,  mysterious  spheres, 
Shall  pass  from  orb  to  orb,  and  dwell  in  each 
Familiar  with  its  children — learn  their  laws. 
And  share  their  state,  and  study  and  adore  > 

The  infinite  varieties  of  bliss 
And  beauty,  by  the  Hand  of  Power  divine 
Lavished  on  all  its  works.     Eternity 
Shall  thus  roll  on  with  ever  fresh  delight ; 
No  pause  of  pleasure  or  improvement ;  world 
On  world  still  opening  to  the  instructed  mind 
An  unexhausted  universe,  and  time 
But  adding  to  its  glories ;  while  the  soul, 
Advancing  ever  to  the  Source  of  light 
And  all  perfection,  lives,  adores  and  reigns 
In  cloudless  knowledge,  purity  and  bliss. 


LESSON  CXXXII. 

Conclusion  of  a  Discourse  in  Commemoration  of  the  Lives 
and  Services  of  John  Adams  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  deliv- 
ered in  Faneuil  Hall,  Boston,  Aug.  2,  1826. — Webster. 

This  lovely  land,  this  glorious  liberty,  these  benign  insti- 
tutions, the  dear  purchase  of  our  fathers,  are  ours ;  ours  to 
enjoy,  ours  to  preserve,  ours  to  transmit.  Generations  past, 
and  generations  to  come,  hold  us  responsible  for  this  sacred 


292  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

trust.  Our  fathers,  from  behind,  admonish  us,  with  their 
anxious,  paternal  voices;  posterity  calls  out  to  us  from  the 
bosom  of  the  future ;  the  world  turns  hither  its  solicitous 
eyes ; — all,  all  conjure  us  to  act  wisely  and  faithfully  in  the 
relation  which  we  sustain.  We  can  never,  indeed,  pay  the 
debt  which  is  upon  us ;  but  by  virtue,  by  morality,  by  re- 
ligion, by  the  cultivation  of  every  good  principle  and  every 
good  habit,  we  may  hope  to  enjoy  the  blessing,  through  our 
day,  and  to  leave  it  unimpaired  to  our  children. 

Let  us  feel  deeply  how  much,  of  what  we  are  and  of  what 
we  possess,  we  owe  to  this  liberty,  and  these  institutions  of 
government.  Nature  has,  indeed,  given  us  a  soil  which 
yields  bounteously  to  the  hands  of  industry ;  the  mighty  and 
fruitful  ocean  is  before  us,  and  the  skies  over  our  heads  shed 
health  and  vigor.  But  what  are  lands,  and  seas,  and  skies, 
to  civilized  man,  without  society,  without  knowledge,  without 
morals,  without  religious  culture?  and  how  can  these  be 
enjoyed,  in  all  their  extent,  and  all  their  excellence,  but 
under  the  protection  of  wise  institutions  and  a  free  govern  • 
ment?  ' 

There  is  not  one  of  us,  there  is  not  one  of  us  here  present, 
who  does  not,  at  this  moment,  and  at  every  moment,  expe 
rience,  in  his  own  condition,  and  in  the  condition  of  those 
most  near  and  dear  to  him,  the  influence  and  the  benefits 
of  this  liberty,  and  these  institutions.  Let  us,  then,  ac- 
knowledge the  blessing ;  let  us  feel  it  deeply  and  powerfully ; 
let  us  cherish  a  strong  affection  for  it,  and  resolve  to  maintain 
and  perpetuate  it.  The  blood  of  our  fathers,— let  it  not 
have  been  shed  in  vain  ;  the  great  hope  of  posterity, — let  it 
not  be  blasted. 

The  striking  attitude,  too,  in  which  we  stand  to  the  world 
around  us,  cannot  be  altogether  omitted  here.  Neither  indi- 
viduals nor  nations  can  perform  their  part  well,  until  they 
understand  and  feel  its  importance,  and  comprehend  and 
justly  appreciate  all  the  duties  belonging  to  it.  It  is  not  to 
inflate  national  vanity,  nor  to  swell  a  light  and  empty  feeling 
of  self-importance ;  but  it  is  that  we  may  judge  justly  of  our 
situation,  and  of  our  own  duties,  that  I  earnestly  urge  this 
consideration  of  our  position,  and  our  character^  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  293 

It  cannot  be  denied,  but  by  those  who  would  dispute 
against  the  sun,  that  with  America,  and  in  America,  a  new 
era  commences  in  human  affairs.  This  era  is  distinguished 
by  free  representative  governments,  by  entire  religious 
liberty,  by  improved  systems  of  national  intercourse,  by  a 
newly  awakened  and  ai;  unconquerable  spirit  of  free  inquiry, 
and  by  a  diffusion  of  knowledge  through  the  community, 
such  as  has  been  before  altogether  unknown  and  unheard  of. 
America,  America,  our  country,  our  own  dear  and  native 
land,  is  inseparably  connected,  fast  bound  up,  in  fortune  and 
by  fate,  with  these  great  interests.  If  they  fall,  we  fall  with 
them ;  if  they  stand,  it  will  be  because  we  have  upholden 
them. 

Let  us  contemplate,  then,  this  connexion,  which  binds  the 
prosperity  of  others  to  our  own ;  and  let  us  manfully  dis- 
charge all  the  duties  which  it  imposes.  If  we  cherish  the  vir- 
tues and  the  principles  of  our  fathers,  Heaven  will  assist 
us  to  carry  on  the  work  of  human  liberty  and  human  hap- 
piness. Auspicious  omens  cheer  us.  Great  examples  are 
before  us.  Our  own  firmament  now  shines  brightly  upon  our 
path.  Washington  is  in  the  clear  upper  sky.  These  other 
stars  have  now  joined  the  American  constellation ;  they 
circle  round  their  centre,  and  the  heavens  beam  with  new 
light.  Beneath  this  illumination,  let  us  walk  the  course  of 
life,  and,  at  its  close,  devoutly  commend  our  beloved  country, 
the  common  parent  of  us  all,  to  the  Divine  Benignity. 


LESSON  CXXXIII. 

Education  a  Life-Business. — Francis. 

When  young  men,  and  especially  young  ladies,  have  com- 
pleted their  course  of  instruction  at  the  schools,  how  often 
do  we  hear  it  said,  that  they  have  finished  their  education  1 
And  it  would  really  seem,  as  if  this  expression  were  under- 
stood to  be  literally  and  exactly  true.  But  it  is  a  great 
error.  The  whole  process,  if  it  has  been  well  and  wisely 
conducted,  has  only  served  to  enable  the  young  to  go  on  with 
25* 


294       Young  ladies'  class  book.         ' 

the  work  of  educating  themselves,  when  they  are  released 
from  the  restraints  of  pupilage, — to  put  into  their  possession 
the  means  of  purifying  their  taste,  of  correcting  and  settling 
their  views,  of  cultivating  the  powers  of  reasoning  and  imag- 
ination, of  strengthening  and  enlarging  their  habits  of 
thought, — in  short,  of  elevating  and  refining  their  whole 
mental  and  moral  nature. 

The  education,  which  is  gradually  gathered  amidst  the 
realities  of  life,  in  the  discharge  of  daily  duties,  and  in  the 
application  of  knowledge  and  principles  to  the  obligations 
and  wants  of  our  situation,  is  one  of  an  exalted  kind,  for 
which  all  the  training  of  early  days  is  but  preparatory.  Such 
an  education,  it  is  manifest,  must  be  a  life- business ;  it  can 
never  come  to  a  close,  while  opportunities  and  means  are 
possessed.  I  believe,  we  are  not  aware  of  the  mischief,  that 
may  be  and  has  been  done  to  the  young,  by  giving  them  the 
impression,  that  when  the  period  of  school  discipline  ceases, 
they  have  completed  the  cultivation  of  their  minds,  and  their 
preparation  for  the  engagements  of  life. 

What  must  be  the  effect  of  such  an  impression,  at  a  time 
when  the  passions  are  usually  growing  into  full  strength,  and 
the  reason  is  unpractised  to  separate  good  from  evil, — when 
temptations,  the  most  numerous  and  alluring,  are  crowding 
around  the  opening  path  of  mature  life, — when  the  dreams 
of  hope  have  just  taken  a  definite  form,  sufficient  to  be  cher- 
ished with  even  more  than  the  fondness  of  childhood, — and 
when  the  world  beckons  on  the  youthful  adventurer,  with  all 
the  solicitations  of  pleasure  and  ambition  !  Then,  if  ever, 
is  the  time  not  to  stop  the  work  of  guarding  and  improving 
the  mind  and  the  principles,  but  to  carry  it  on  with  more  vig- 
or and  a  keener  sense  of  its  importance. 

Education  finished  !  Why,  we  might  as  well  talk  of  good- 
ness, or  wisdom,  or  religion  being  finished.  Especially  will 
this  appear  to  be  true,  when  we  extend  our  views  farther, 
and  consider  that  the  whole  of  life  is  but  an  education  for 
eternity ;  that  our  existence  here  is  but  a  state  of  pupilage,  in 
which  we  are  to  acquire  characters  and  habits  that  will  rise 
with  us  from  the  grave,  and  be  our  joy  or  our  shame  hereafter. 
The  mighty  mind  of  a  Newton  was  but  in  its  childhood  here 
on  earth ;  for  the  successive  stages  of  man's  existence,  are 


YOUNa  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  095 

designed  to  be  so  many  successive  stages  of  advancement 
and  improvement.  The  education  of  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual agent  begins  in  infancy,  and  goes  on  through  subsequent 
degrees,  till  it  is  carried  out  and  perfected  in  the  upper  world. 
At  each  portion  of  the  grand  progress,  some  error,  or  vice, 
or  folly,  may  be  dropped  ;  and  the  soul  may  grow  wiser,  and 
stronger,  and  purer,  as  she  travels  on,  till  she  becomes  meet 
to  receive  the  stainless  spirit  of  light  and  truth,  and  acquires 
a  full  affinity  for  the  heavenly  wisdom  of  the  better  world. 


LESSON   CXXXIV. 
Parrhasius. — Willis. 

"  Parrhasius,  a  painter  of  Athens,  amongst  those  Olynthian  captives  Phih'p 
of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one  very  old  man  ;  and,  when  he  had 
him  at  his  house,  put  him  to  death  with  extreme  torture  cuid  torment,  the  bet- 
ter, by  his  example,  to  express  the  pains  and  passions  of  his  Prometheus, 
whom  he  was  then  about  to  paint." — Burton's  Anat.  of  Mel. 

The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 
Streamed  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 
From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth,  ■ 

And,  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere, 
Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical,  they  lay. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  armor,  and  about. 
In  the  dim  corners,  stood  the  sculptured  forms 
Of  Cytheris,  and  Dian,  and  stern  Jove, 
And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 
Fell  the  grotesque,  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 
And,  like  a  veil  of  filmy  mellowness. 
The  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvass.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh  ; 
And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim. 
Rapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  wild 


296         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Forth  with  its  reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 

And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye 

Flashed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 

Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip. 

Were  like  the  winged  god's,  breathing  from  his  flight. 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now ! 
My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift ; 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens,  around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

"  Ha !  bind  him  on  his  back ! 
Look !  as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here — 
Quick — or  he  faints ! — stand  with  the  cordial  near ! 

Now  bend  him  to  the  rack ! 
Press  down  the  poisoned  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh ! 

"  So — let  him  writhe  !     How  long 
Will  he  live  thus  ?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now ! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha !  gray-haired,  and  so  strong ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan ! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan ! 

"  '  Pity'  thee !     So  I  do ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar  ; 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine  : 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 

"  *  Hereafter !'     Ay,  hereafter  ! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track  ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  skeptic's  laughter  ? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow,  with  that  story, 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 


■^OUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  297 

"  No,  no,  old  man ;  we  die 
E'en  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  e'en  as  they 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye ; 
For,  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er. 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

^'  Yet  there's  a  deathless  name, — 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And,  like  a  steadfast  planet,  mount  and  burn  ; 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  won  me, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars  !  I'd  pluck  it  on  ihe. 

"  Ay,  though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst ; 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  maddened  first ; 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild ; — 

"  All,  I  would  do  it  all. 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot ; 
Thrust  foully  in  the  earth  to  be  forgot. 

O  heavens !  but  I  appal 
Your  heart,  old  man  !  forgive — Ha !  on  your  lives, 
Let  him  not  faint ! — rack  him  till  he  revives ! 

"  Vain,  vain  ;   give  o'er  !     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back !  I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow. 

Gods  !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  I 

"  Shivering !     Hark !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another  1     Wilt  thou  never  come,  O  Death  1 

Look !  how  his  temple  flutters ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha !  lift  up  his  head ! 
He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him — so-^he's  dead  " 


298  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  CXXXV. 

The  SouVs  Defiance* — Anonymous. 

I  SAID  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm, 

That  beat  against  my  breast, 
"  Rage  on  !  thou  may'st  destroy  this  form, 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  the  spirit,  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 
Undaunted,  on  its  fury  looks 

With  steadfast  eye." 

I  said  to  Penury's  meagre  train, 
"  Come  on !  your  threats  I  brave ; 

My  last,  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 
And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 

Yet  still  the  spirit,  that  endures, 
Shall  mock  your  force  the  while. 

And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 
With  bitter  smile." 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

"  Pass  on  !  I  heed  you  not ;  . 

Ye  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit,  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles, 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  high-born  smiles." 

I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 
"  Strike  deep !  my  heart  shall  bear  ; 

Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  wo 
To  those  already  there ; 

*This  poem  was  written  many  years  ago,  by  a  lady,  and  wTitten  from  ex- 
perience and  feeling.  There  is  a  very  remarkable  grandeur  and  power  in  the 
sentiments,  sustamod,  as  they  are,  by  an  energy  of  expression  well  suited  to 
the  spirit's  uudauntcd  defiance  of  misfortune. — Ed.  Common-place  Book  of 
Poetry. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  399 

Yet  still  the  spirit,  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress, 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 
And  scorn  redress." 

I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart, 

"  Aim  sure !  oh,  why  delay  ?  ^ 

Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart — 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey ; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Triumphant  in  the  last  dismay, 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity. 

Shall  smiling  pass  away." 


LESSON  CXXXVI. 

Sonnet  to  the  South  Wind. — Bryant. 

Ay,  thou  art  welcome — heaven's  delicious  breath — 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf. 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  South,  oh,  long  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, — 
Like  to  a  good  old  age,  released  from  care. 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life,  like  thee,  mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks. 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh ; 

'    And,  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass. 
Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


LESSON  CXXXVII. 

Lilias  Grieve. — ^Wilson. 

There  were  fear  and  melancholy  in  all  the  glens  and  val- 
leys that  lay  stretching  around,  or  down  upon  St.  Mary's 


300  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Loch ;  for  it  was  the  time  of  religious  persecution.  Many 
a  sweet  cottage  stood  untenanted  on  the  hill-side  and  in  the , 
hollow :  some  had  felt  the  fire,  and  been  consumed ;  and  vio- 
lent hands  had  torn  off  the  turf  roof  from  the  green  shealing 
of  the  shepherd.  In  the  wide  and  deep  silence  and  solitari- 
ness of  the  mountains,  it  seemed  as  if  human  life  were  nearly 
extinct.  Caverns  and  clefts,  in  which  the  fox  had  kennelled, 
were  now  the  shelter  of  Christian  souls ;  and  when  a  lonely 
figure  crept  stealingly  from  one  hiding-place  to  another,  on  a 
visit  of  love  to  some  hunted  brother  in  faith,  the  crows 
would  hover  over  him,  and  the  hawk  shriek  at  human  steps, 
now  rare  in  the  desert. 

When  the  babe  was  born,  there  might  be  none  near  to  bap- 
tize it ;  or  the  minister,  driven  from  his  kirk,  perhaps,  poured 
the  sacramental  water  upon  its  face,  from  some  pool  in  the  glen, 
whose  rocks  guarded  the  persecuted  family  from  the  oppres- 
sor. Bridals  now  were  unfrequent,  and  in  the  solemn  sadness 
of  love.  Many  died  before  their  time,  of  minds  sunken,  and 
of  broken  hearts.  White  hair  was  on  heads  long  before  they 
were  old ;  and  the  silver  locks  of  ancient  men  were  often 
ruefully  soiled  in  the  dust,  and  stained  with  their  martyred 
blood. 

But  this  is  the  dark  side  of  the  picture  ;  for,  even  in 
their  caves,  were  these  people  happy.  Their  children  were 
with  them,  even  like  the  wild  flowers  that  blossomed  all 
about  the  entrances  of  their  dens.  And  when  the  voice  of 
psalms  rose  up  from  the  profound  silence  of  the  solitary 
place  of  rocks,  the  ear  of  God  was  open,  and  they  knew  that 
their  prayers  and  praises  were  heard  in  heaven.  If  a  child 
was  born,  it  belonged  unto  the  faithful ;  if  an  old  man  died, 
it  was  in  the  religion  of  his  forefathers.  The  hidden  powers 
of  their  souls  were  brought  forth  into  the  light,  and  they 
knew  the  strength  that  was  in  them  for  these  days  of  trial. 
The  thoughtless  became  sedate  ;  the  wild  were  tamed  ;  the 
unfeeling  made  compassionate  ;  hard  hearts  were  softened, 
and  the  wicked  saw  the  error  of  their  ways. 

All  deep  passion  purifies  and  strengthens  the  soul ;  and  so 
was  it  now.  Now  was  shown  and  put  to  the  proof,  the  stern, 
austere,  impenetrable  strength  of  men,  that  would  neither 
bend  nor  break ;  the  calm,  serene  determination  of  matrons, 
who,  with  meek  eyes  and  unblanched  cheeks,  met  the  scow^ 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  304 

of  the  murderer, — the  silent  beauty  of  maidens,  who  with 
smiles  received  their  death, — and  the  mysterious  courage  of 
children,  who,  in  the  inspiration  of  innocent  and  spotless 
nature,  kneeled  down  among  the  dew  drops  on  the  green 
sward,  and  died  fearlessly  by  their  parents'  sides.  Arrested 
were  they  at  their  work,  or  in  their  play ;  and,  with  no  other 
bandage  over  their  eyes,  but  haply  some  clustering  ringlet  of 
their  sunny  hair,  did  many  a  sweet  creature  of  twelve  sum- 
mers, ask  just  to  be  allowed  to  say  her  prayers,  and  then  go, 
unappalled,  from  her  cottage  door  to  the  breast  of  her  Re- 
deemer. 

In  those  days  had  old  Samuel  Grieve  and  his  spouse  suf- 
fered sorely  for  their  faith.  But  they  left  not  their  own 
house — willing  to  die  there,  or  to  be  slaughtered,  whenever 
God  should  so  appoint.  They  were  now  childless;  but  a 
little  granddaughter,  about  ten  years  old,  lived  with  them,  and 
she  was  an  orphan.  The  thought  of  death  was  so  familiar 
to  her,  that,  although  sometimes  it  gave  a  slight  quaking 
throb  to  her  heart  in  its  glee,  yet  it  scarcely  impaired  the 
natural  joyfulness  of  her  girlhood  ;  and  often,  unconsciously, 
after  the  gravest  or  the  saddest  talk  with  her  old  parents, 
would  she  glide  off,  with  a  lightsome  step,  a  blithe  face,  and 
a  voice  humming  sweetly  some  cheerful  tune.  The  old 
people  looked  often  upon  her  in  her  happiness,  till  their  dim 
eyes  filled  with  tears ;  while  the  grandmother  said,  "  If  this 
nest  were  to  be  destroyed,  at  last,  and  our  heads  in  the  mould, 
who  would  feed  this  young  bird  in  the  wild,  and  where  would 
she  find  shelter  in  which  to  fauld  her  bonnie  wings  1" 

Lilias  Grieve  was  the  shepherdess  of  a  small  flock,  among 
the  green  pasturage  at  the  head  of  St.  Mary's  Loch,  and  up 
the  hill-side,  and  over  into  some  of  the  little  neighboring 
glens.  Sometimes  she"  sat  in  that  beautiful  church-yard,  with 
her  sheep  lying  scattered  around  her  upon  the  quiet  graves, 
where,  on  still,  sunny  days,  she  could  see  their  shadows  in 
the  water  in  the  loch,  and  herself  sitting  close  to  the  low 
walls  of  the  house  of  God.  She  had  no  one  to  speak  to,  but 
her  Bible  to  read  ;  and,  day  after  day,  the  rising  sun  beheld 
her  in  growing  beauty,  and  innocence  that  could  not  fade, 
happy  and  silent  as  a  fairy  upon  the  knowe,  with  the  blue 
heavens  over  her  head,  and  the  blue  lake  smiling  at  her  feet 
26 


302  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

"  My  fairy"  was  the  name  she  bore  by  the  cottage  fire, 
where  the  old  people  were  gladdened  by  her  glee,  and  turned 
away  from  all  melancholy  thoughts.  And  it  was  a  name  that 
suited  sweet  Lilias  well ;  for  she  was  clothed  in  a  garb  of 
green,  and  often,  in  her  joy,  the  green,  graceful  plants  that 
grow  among  the  hills,  were  wreathed  round  her  hair.  So 
was  she  dressed  one  Sabbath  day,  watching  her  flock  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  home,  and  singing  to  herself  a 
psalm  in  the  solitary  moor  ;  when,  in  a  moment,  a  party  of 
soldiers  were  upon  a  mount  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  narrow 
dell. 

Lilias  was  invisible  as  a  green  linnet  upon  the  grass ;  but 
her  sweet  voice  had  betrayed  her,  and  then  one  of  the  sol- 
diers caught  the  wild  gleam  of  her  eyes ;  and,  as  she  sprung 
frightened  to  her  feet,  he  called  out,  "  A  roe  !  a  roe  !  See  how 
she  bounds  along  the  bent !"  and  the  ruffian  took  aim  at  the 
child  with  his  musket,  half  in  sport,  half  in  ferocity.  Lilias 
kept  appearing  and  disappearing,  while  she  flew,  as  on  wings, 
across  a  piece  of  black  heathery  moss,  full  of  pits  and  hollows; 
— and  still  the  soldier  kept  his  musket  at  its  aim.  His  com- 
rades called  to  him  to  hold  his  hand,  and  not  shoot  a  poor 
little  innocent  child  ;  but  he  at  length  fired,  and  the  bullet 
was  heard  to  whiz  past  her  fern-crowned  head,  and  to  strike 
a  bank  which  she  was  about  to  ascend. .  The  child  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  looked  back,  and  then  bounded  away  over 
the  smooth  turf;  till,  like  a  cushat,  she  dropped  into  a  little 
birchen  glen,  and  disappeared.  Not  a  sound  of  her  feet  was 
heard ;  she  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  the  ground  ;  and  the 
soldier  stood,  without  any  effort  to  follow  her,  gazing  through 
the  smoke  towards  the  spot  where  she  had  vanished. 

A  sudden  superstition  assailed  the  hearts  of  the  party,  as 
they  sat  down  together  upon  a  hedge  of  stone.  "  Saw  you 
her  face.  Riddle,  as  my  ball  went  whizzing  past  her  ear? 
If  she  be  not  one  of  those  hill  fairies,  she  had  been  dead  as 
a  herring ;  but  I  believe  the  bullet  glanced  off  her  yellow 
hair  as  against  a  buckler."  *'  It  was  the  act  of  a  gallows- 
rogue  to  fire  upon  the  creature,  fairy  or  not  fairy  ;  and  yon 
deserve  the  weight  of  this  hand — the  hand  of  an  Englishman 
— you  brute,  for  your  cruelty."  And  up  rose  the  speaker  to 
put  his  threat  into  execution,  when  the  other  retreated  some 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  303 

distance,  and  began  to  load  his  musket ;  but  the  Englishman 
ran  upon  him,  and,  with  a  Cumberland  gripe  and  trip,  laid 
him  upon  the  hard  ground  with  a  force  that  drove  the 
breath  out  of  his  body,  and  left  him  stunned,  and  almost 
insensible.     *     *     *     * 

The  fallen  ruffian  now  rose  somewhat  humbled,  and  sul- 
lenly sat  down  among  the  rest.  *'  Why,"  quoth  Allan  Sleigh, 
"  I  wager  you  a  week's  pay,  you  don't  venture  fifty  yards, 
without  your  musket,  down  yonder  shingle,  where  the  fairy 
disappeared ;"  and,  the  wager  being  accepted,  the  half- 
drunken  fellow  rushed  on  towards  the  head  of  the  glen,  and 
was  heard  crashing  away  through  the  shrubs.  In  a  few  min- 
utes he  returned,  declaring,  with  an  oath,  that  he  had  seen  her 
at  the  mouth  of  a  cave,  where  no  human  foot  could  reach,  stand- 
ing with  her  hair  all  on  fire,  and  an  angry  countenance ;  and 
that  he  had  tumbled  backwards  into  the  burn,  and  been  nearly 
drowned.  "  Drowned  !"  cried  Allan  Sleigh.  "  Ay,  drowned ; 
why  not  ?  A  hundred  yards  down  that  bit  glen,  the  pools  are 
as  black  as  pitch,  and  the  water  roars  like  thunder  :  drowned ! 
why  not,  you  English  son  of  a  deer-stealer  ?"  **  Why  not  ? 
because,  who  was  ever  drowned,  that  was  born  to  be  hanged?" 
And  that  jest  caused  universal  laughter,  as  it  is  always  sure 
to  do,  often  as  it  may  be  repeated,  iii  a  company  of  ruf- 
fians ;  such  is  felt  to  be  its  perfect  truth  and  unanswerable 
simplicity 


LESSON  CXXXVIII. 

The  same, — concluded. 

After  an  hour's  quarrelling,  and  gibing,  and  mutiny, 
this  disorderly  band  of  soldiers  proceeded  on  their  way  down 
into  the  head  of  Yarrow,  and  there  saw,  in  the  solitude,  the 
house  of  Samuel  Grieve.  Thither  they  proceeded  to  get 
some  refreshment,  and  ripe  for  any  outrage  that  any  occasion 
might  suggest.  The  old  man  and  his  wife,  hearing  a  tumult 
of  many  voices  and  many  feet,  came  out,  and  were  immedi- 
ately saluted  with  many  opprobrious  epithets.     The  hut  was 


304  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

soon  rifled  of  any  small  articles  of  wearing  apparel ;  and 
Samuel,  without  emotion,  set  before  them  whatever  provisions 
he  had — butter,  cheese,  bread  and  milk — and  hoped  they 
would  not  be  too  hard  upon  old  people,  who  were  desirous  of 
dying,  as  they  had  lived,  in  peace.  Thankful  were  they 
both,  in  their  parental  hearts,  that  their  little  Lilias  was  among 
the  hills ;  and  the  old  man  trusted,  that  if  she  returned 
before  the  soldiers  were  gone,  she  would  see,  from  some  dis- 
tance, their  muskets  on  the  green  before  the  door,  and  hide 
herself  among  the  brakens. 

The  soldiers  devoured  their  repast  with  many  oaths,  and 
much  hideous  and  obscene  language,  which  it  was  sore 
against  the  old  man's  soul  to  hear  in  his  own  hut ;  but  he 
said  nothing,  for  that  would  have  been  wilfully  to  sacrifice 
his  life.  At  last,  one  of  the  party  ordered  him  to  return 
thanks,  in  words  impious  and  full  of  blasphemy ;  which  Sam- 
uel calmly  refused  to  do,  beseeching  them,  at  the  same  time, 
for  the  sake  of  their  own  souls,  not  so  to  offend  their  great 
and  bountiful  Preserver.  "  Confound  the  old  canting  Cove- 
nanter ;  I  will  prick  him  with  my  bayonet,  if  he  won't  say 
grace  1"  and  the  blood  trickled  down  the  old  man's  cheek, 
from  a  slight  wound  on  his  forehead. 

The  sight  of  it  seemed  to  awaken  the  dormant  blood- 
thirstiness  in  the  tiger  heart  of  the  soldier,  who  now  swore, 
if  the  old  man  did  not  instantly  repeat  the  words  after  him, 
he  would  shoot  him  dead.  And,  as  if  cruelty  were  conta- 
gious, almost  the  whole  party  agreed  that  the  demand  was 
hut  reasonable,  and  that  the  old  hypocritical  knave  must 
preach  or  perish.  *'  Here  is  a  great  musty  Bible,"  cried  one 
of  them.  "  If  he  won't  speak,  I  will  gag  him,  with  a  ven- 
geance. Here,  old  Mr.  Peden  the  prophet,  let  me  cram  a 
few  chapters  of  St.  Luke  down  your  maw.  St.  Luke  was  a 
physician,  I  believe.  Well,  here  is  a  dose  of  him.  Open 
your  jaws."  And,  with  these  words,  he  tore  a  handful  of 
leaves  out  of  the  Bible,  and  advanced  towards  the  old  man, 
from  whose  face  his  terrified  wife  was  now  wiping  off  the 
blood. 

Samuel  Grieve  was  nearly  fourscore ;  but  his  sinews  were 
not  yet  relaxed,  and,  in  his  younger  days,  he  had  been  a  man 
of  great  strength.     When,  therefore,  the  soldier  grasped  him 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

by  the  neck,  the  sense  of  receiving  an  indignity  from  such  a 
slave  made  his  blood  boil,  and,  as  if  his  youth  had  been  re- 
newed, the  gray-headed  man,  with  one  blow,  felled  the 
ruffian  to  the  floor. 

That  blow  sealed  his  doom.  There  was  a  fierce  tumult 
and  yelling  of  wrathful  voices,  and  Samuel  Grieve  was  led  out 
to  die.  He  had  witnessed  such  butchery  of  others,  and  felt 
that  the  hour  of  his  martyrdom  was  come.  "  As  thou  didst 
reprove  Simon  Peter  in  the  garden,  when  he  smote  the  high 
priest's  servant,  and  saidst,  '  The  cup  which  my  Father  hath 
given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it?'  so  now,  O  my  Redeemer, 
do  thou  pardon  me,  thy  frail  and  erring  follower,  and  enable 
me  to  drink  this  cup !"  With  these  words,  the  old  man 
knelt  down  unbidden,  and,  after  one  solemn  look  to  heaven, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  folded  his  hands  across  his  breast. 

His  wife  now  came  forward,  and  knelt  down  beside  the  old 
man.  "Let  us  die  togetner,  Samuel;  but,  oh!  what  will 
become  of  our  dear  Lilias?"  ''  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb,"  said  her  husband,  opening  not  his  eyes,  but 
taking  her  hand  into  his  :  "  Sarah,  be  not  afraid."  "  O 
Samuel,  I  remember,  at  this  moment,  these  words  of  Jesus, 
which  you  this  morning  read — '  Forgive  them.  Father ;  they 
know  not  what  they  do?'  "  "  We  are  all  sinners  together," 
said  Samuel,  with  a  loud  voice  ;  "  we  two  old  gray-headed 
people,  on  our  knees,  and  about  to  die,  both  forgive  you  all, 
as  we  hope  ourselves  to  be  forgiven.  We  are  ready  :  be 
merciful,  and  do  not  mangle  us.     Sarah,  be  not  afraid." 

It  seemed  that  an  angel  was  sent  down  from  heaven  to 
save  the  lives  of  these  two  old  gray-headed  folk.  With  hair 
floating  in  sunny  light,  and  seemingly  wreathed  with  flowers 
of  heavenly  azure ;  with  eyes  beaming  lustre,  and  yet  stream- 
ing tears ;  with  white  arms  extended  in  their  beauty,  and 
motion  gentle  and  gliding  as  the  sunshine  when  a  cloud  is 
rolled  away — came  on,  over  the  meadow  before  the  hut,  the 
same  green-robed  creature,  that  had  startled  the  soldiers  with 
her  singing  in  the  moor ;  and,  crying  loudly,  but  still  sweetly, 
"God  sent  me  hither  to  save  their  lives,"  she  fell  down 
beside  them  as  they  knelt  together ;  and  then,  lifting  up  her 
head  from  the  turf,  fixed  her  beautiful  face,  instinct  with 
26* 


306  tOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  fiOOK. 

fear,  love,  hope,  and  the  spirit  of  prayer,  upon  the  eyes  of  the 
men  about  to  shed  that  innocent  blood. 

They  all  stood  heart-stricken ;  and  the  executioners  flung 
down  their  muskets  upon  the  green  sward.  "  God  bless  you, 
kind,  good  soldiers,  for  this!"  exclaimed  the  child,  now 
weeping  and  sobbing  with  joy.  "  Ay,  ay,  you  will  be  happy 
to-night,  when  you  lie  down  to  sleep.  If  you  have  any  little 
daughters  or  sisters  like  me,  God  will  love  them  for  your 
mercy  to  us,  and  nothing,  till  you  return  home,  will  hurt  a 
hair  of  their  heads.  Oh !  I  see  now  that  soldiers  are  not  so 
cruel  as  we  say!"  "  Lilias,  your  grandfather  speaks  unto  you; 
his  last  words  are — Leave  us,  leave  us ;  for  they  are  going  to 
put  us  to  death.  Soldiers,  kill  not  this  little  child,  or  the 
waters  of  the  loch  will  rise  up  and  drown  the  sons  of  per- 
dition. Lilias,  give  us  each  a  kiss,  and  then  go  into  the 
house." 

The  soldiers  conversed  together  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
seemed  now  like  men  themselves  condemned  to  die.  Shame 
and  remorse,  for  their  coward  cruelty,  smote  them  to  the 
core  ;  and  they  bade  them  that  were  still  kneeling,  to  rise  up 
and  go  their  ways  :  then,  forming  themselves  into  regular 
order,  one  gave  the  word  of  command,  and,  marching  off, 
ttiey  soon  disappeared.  The  old  man,  his  wife,  and  little 
Lilias,  continued  for  some  tim  on  their  knees  in  prayer,  and 
then  all  three  went  into  the  hut ;  the  child  between  them, 
and  a  withered  hand  of  each  laid  upon  its  beautiful  and  its 
fearless  head. 


LESSON  CXXXIX. 

Mopes  and  Fears  of  Parents. — Francis 

The  hopes  and  fears,  that  cluster  around  the  relation  in 
which  we  stand  to  the  young,  are  among  the  strongest  and 
most  intense  feelings  of  the  heart.  By  a  spontaneous  move- 
ment of  the  mind,  we  connect  these  objects  of  affection  with 
Uie  future.     We  pass  rapidly  onward,  in  thought,  from  what 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  307 

they  are  to  what  they  may  become.  And  the  progress,  which 
thus  stretches  out  before  the  imagination,  is,  in  truth,  a  won- 
derful scene.  Mark  the  series  of  changes  from  early  infancy 
to  established  maturity, — from  the  simple  feelings,  the  cheap 
pleasures,  the  artless  plans  and  purposes,  the  little  joys  and 
little  disappointments  of  childhood,  to  the  time  when  each 
one  goes  forth,  as  an  individual  agent,  on  his  own  path,  and 
with  his  own  responsibleness, — and  you  will  see  how  wide  and 
indefinite  may  be  the  range  of  conjecture  on  this  subject. 

From  the  feeble  beginnings  of  these  early  days,  may  come 
the  man  of  strong  frame,  who  bends  himself  to  his  daily  task 
with  untired  endurance ;  or  the  enterprising  devotee  to  busi- 
ness, who  plunges  into  the  midst  of  the  crowded  cares  of  the 
world,  and  does  his  part  to  keep  in  ceaseless  motion  the  vast 
machinery  of  active  life ;  or  the  enlightened  scholar,  who 
traverses  the  fields  of  knowledge,  to  bring  thence  his  contri- 
butions to  the  general  treasury  of  improvement ;  or  the  hardy 
navigator,  who  rides  upon  the  ocean  waves,  as  it  were  in  the 
chariot  of  his  glory,  and  fearlessly  throws  himself  into  com<- 
bat  with  the  storm ;  or  the  statesman,  who  bears  up,  with  an 
unwearied  arm,  the  weight  of  a  nation's  welfare  and  a 
nation's  rights.  Amidst  the  success  and  defeat,  the  honor 
and  the  shame,  the  strengthening  of  virtue,  and  the  growing 
ascendency  of  vice,  which  may  find  a  place  between  the  first 
and  last  points  of  feuch  a  progress,  how  many  combinations 
may  imagination  make,  in  attempting  to  cast  the  destiny  of 
a  child ! 

The  hopes  and  promises  of  coming  time,  are  interwoven 
with  all  the  serious  and  thoughtful  affections  of  parents ;  and 
some  of  the  most  precious  interests  of  life,  are  involved  in  the 
calculation.  And,  generally,  the  vision,  which  thus  floats 
before  the  mind,  is  a  pleasant  one.  The  propensity  is  to  see 
good  in  the  prospect,  to  gather  around  these  young  germs  of 
immortality,  fair  and  bright  anticipations.  The  everlasting 
principle,  which  is  implanted  in  every  little  breast,  and  which 
shall  live  when  systems  of  worlds  shall  have  been  hushed  in 
silence,  and  when  "  the  host  of  heaven  "  shall  have  faded 
away,  we  are  prone  to  believe,  will  be  an^  ever-increasing 
principle  of  beauty  and  improvement.  We  hope,  at  least, 
that  the  dark  lines  of  guilt  will  never  be  traced  on  the  spirit, 


308  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

that  now  blooms  in  innocence  and  loveliness  ;  that  the  thirst 
for  knowledge,  which  now  animates  the  youthful  bosom,  will 
never  be  displaced  by  the  corrupting  and  leaden  influence  of 
ignorance  and  sensuality. 

Yet  how  often  do  these  fair  promises  fail  of  their  accom- 
plishment !  how  often  are  these  pleasant  expectations  turned 
to  shame  and  bitterness !  how  often  does  the  man  prove 
faithless  to  the  pledge  given  by  the  child !  The  visions  we 
cherish  with  regard  to  our  offspring,  may  prove  as  deceitful 
as  the  summer  clouds,  which  stretch  along  the  horizon,  and 
which,  we  are  told,  the  mariner  not  unfrequently  mistakes,  in 
the  distance,  for  firm  and  pleasant  land.  The  hopes,  that 
flourished  in  all  their  freshness  in  the  school,  or  at  the  fire- 
side, may  be  crushed  or  blasted  amidst  the  struggles  and 
conflicts  of  manhood.  Where  expectation  was  looking  for 
a  bright  development  of  honorable  and  useful  talent,  we 
sometimes  find  nothing  but  the  dull  level  of  ordinary  attaii>- 
raents.  The  promise  of  purity  and  improvement,  which  the 
opening  of  life  gave,  is  falsified  amidst  the  toils  and  strivings 
of  later  years,  reminding  us  of  the  fanciful,  but  beautiful 
notion  entertained  by  some  of  the  ancient  nations,  that  the 
light  of  the  dawn  was  an  uncreated  being,  which  gleamed 
from  the  throne  of  God,  and  returned  thither  when  the  ter- 
restrial sun  arose. 


LESSON  CXL. 
Scene  from  IIadad.—H.iLLUOvsii.  ■' 

An  apartment  in  Absalom's  house.    Nathan  and  Tamar. 

Nathan.     Thou'rt  left;  to-day,  (would  thou  wert  ever  left 
Of  some  that  haunt  thee !)  therefore  am  I  come 
To  give  thee  counsel. — Child  of  sainted  Miriam, 
Fear  not  to  look  upon  me  ;  thou  wilt  hear 
The  gentle  voice  of  love,  not  stern  monition. 
Commune  with  me  as  with  a  tender  parent. 
Who  cares  for  all  thy  wishes,  hopes  and  fears. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  309 

Though  prizing  thy  immortal  gem  above 
The  transitory. 

Tamar.     Have  I  not  thus,  ever  1 

Nath.     But  I  would  probe  the  tenderest  of  thy  heart, 
Touch  its  disease,  and  give  it  strength  again, 
And  yet  inflict  no  pain. 

Tarn.     What  means  my  lord  1 

Nath.     I  know  thee  pure,  and  guileless  as  the  dove, — 
The  easier  prey  ;  and  thou  art  fair,  to  tempt 
The  spoiler — nay,  be  not  alarmed,  but  speak 
Openly  to  me.     I  would  ask  thee,  princess, 
If  not  displeasing,  somewhat  of  the  stranger. 
The  Syrian,  who  aspires  to  David's  line. 

Tam.     {Averting  her  eyes.) 
If  I  can  answer — 

Nath.     Maiden,  need  I  ask, — 
I  fear  I  need  not, — is  he  dear  to  thee  1 — • 
'Tis  well.     But  tell  me,  hast  thou  ever  noted. 
Amidst  his  many  shining  qualities. 
Aught  strange  or  singular? — unlike  to  others? — 
That  caused  thy  wonder  1 — even  to  thyself. 
Moved  thee  to  say,  '*  How  !  Wherefore's  this  ?" 

Tam.     Never. 

Nath.     Nothing  that  marked  him  from  the  rest  of  men?— 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  why  thus  I  question. 

Tam.     O  yes,  unlike  he  seems  in  many  things ; 
In  knowledge,  eloquence,  high  thoughts. 

Nath.     Proud  thoughts 
Thou  mean'st. 

Tam.     I'm  but  a  young  and  simple  maid  ; 
But,  father,  he,  of  all  my  ears  have  judged. 
Is  master  of  the  loftiest,  richest  mind. 

Nath.     How  have  I  wronged  him  !  deeming  him  more  apt 
For  intricate  designs,  and  daring  deeds. 
Than  contemplation's  solitary  flights. 

Tam.     Seer,  his  far-soaring  thoughts  ascend  the  stars, 
Pierce  the  unseen  abyss,  pervade,  like  light. 
The  universe,  and  wing  the  infinite. 

Nath.     [Fixing  his  eyes  upon  her.) 
What  stores  of  love,  and  praise,  and  gratitude, 


810  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

He  thence  must  bring  to  Him,  whose  mighty  hand 
Fashioned  their  glories,  hung  yon  golden  orbs 
Amidst  his  wondrous  firmament;  who  bids 
The  day-spring  know  his  place,  and  sheds  from  all 
Sweet  influences ;  who  bars  the  haughty  sea, 
Binds  fast  his  dreadful  hail,  but  drops  the  dew 
Nightly  upon  his  people  1     How  his  soul, 
Returning  from  its  quest  through  earth  and  heaven, 
Must  glow  with  holy  fervor  1 — Doth  it,  maiden? 

Tarn.     Ah,  father,  father,  were  it  so  indeed, 
I  were  too  happy. 

Nath.     How  ! — Expound  thy  words. 

Tarn.     Though  he  has  trod  the  confines  of  the  world. 
Knows  all  its  wonders,  and  almost  has  pierced 
The  secrets  of  eternity,  his  heart 
Is  melancholy,  lone,  discordant,  save 
When  love  attunes  it  into  happiness. 
He  hath  not  found,  alas!  the  peace  which  dwells 
But  with  our  fathers'  God. 

Nath.     And  canst  thou  love 
One  who  loves  not  Jehovah  1  v 

Tam.     Oh  !  ask  not. 

Nath.     {Fervently.) 
My  child,  thou  wouldst  not  wed  an  infidel  1 

Tam.     (In  tears.)     O  no!  O  no! 

Nath.     Why,  then,  this  embassage  1     Why  doth  your  sire 
Still  urge  the  king  ?     Why  hast  thou  hearkened  it  ? 

Tam.     There  was  a  time  when  I  had  hopes, — when  truth 
Seemed  dawning  in  his  mind, — and  sometimes,  still, 
Such  heavenly  glimpses  shine,  that  my  fond  heart 
Refuses  to  forego  the  hope,  at  last. 
To  number  him  with  Israel. 

Nath.     Beware ! 
Or  thou'lt  delude  thy  soul  to  ruin.     Say, 
Doth  he  attend  our  holy  ordinances  ? 

Tam.     He  promises  observance. 

Nath.     Two  full  years 
Hath  he  abode  in  Jewry. 

Tam.     Prophet,  think 
How  he  was  nurtured — in  the  faith  of  idols. — 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  311 

That  impious  worship  long  since  he  abjured 
By  his  own  native  strength ;  and  now  he  looks 
Abroad  through  nature's  works,  and  yet  must  rise — 

Natli.     Speaks  he  of  Moses  1 

Tarn.     Familiar  as  thyself. 

Nath.     I  think  thou  said'st  he  had  surveyed  the  world  1 

Tarn.     From  Ethiopia  to  the  farthest  East, — 
Cities,  and  tribes,  and  nations.     He  can  speak 
Of  hundred-gated  Thebes,  towered  Babylon, 
And  mightier  Nineveh,  vast  Palibothra, 
Serendib,  anchored  by  the  gates  of  morning, 
Renowned  Benares,  where  the  sages  teach 
The  mystery  of  the  soul,  and  that  famed  seat 
Where  fleets  and  warriors  from  Elishah's  Isles 
Besieged  the  Beauty,  where  great  Memnon  fell ; — 
Of  temples,  groves,  and  superstitious  caves. 
Filled  with  strange  symbols  of  the  Deity ; 
Of  wondrous  mountains,  desert-circled  seas. 
Isles  of  the  ocean,  lovely  Paradises, 
Set,  like  unfading  emeralds,  in  the  deep. 

Nath.     Yet  manhood  scarce  confirms  his  cheek. 

Tarn.     All  this 
His  thirst  of  knowledge  has  achieved — the  wish 
To  gather  from  the  wise  eternal  truth. 

Naih.     Not  found,  where  he  has  sought  it,  and  has  led 
Thy  wandering  fancy. 

Tam.     Oh  !  might  I  relate — 
But  I  bethink  me,  father,  of  a  thing 
Like  that  you  asked.     Sometimes,  when  I'm  alone, 
Just  ere  his  coming,  I  have  heard  a  sound — 
A  strange,  mysterious,  melancholy  sound — 
Like  music  in  the  air.     Anon  he  enters. 

Nath.     Ha!  is  this  oft? 

Tam.     'Tis  not  unfrequent. 

Naih.     Only 
When  thou'rt  alone? 

Tam.     I  have  not  heard  it  else. 

Naih.     A  sound  like  what? 

Tam.     Like  wild,  sad  music,  father ; 
More  moving  than  the  lute  or  viol  touched 


312  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

By  skilful  fingers.     Wailing  in  the  air, 

It  seems  around  me,  and  withdraws  as  when 

One  looks  and  lingers  for  a  last  adieu. 

Nath.     Just  ere  he  enters  1 

Tam.     At  his  step  it  dies. 

Nath.     Mark  me.     Thou  know'st  'tis  held  by  righteous 
men, 
That  Heaven  intrusts  us  all  to  watching  spirits, 
Who  ward  us  from  the  tempter. — This  I  deem 
Some  intimation  of  an  unseen  danger. 

Tam.     But  whence  ? 

Nath.     Time  may  reveal :  meanwhile,  I  warn  thee, 
Trust  not  thyself  alone  with  Hadad. 

Tam.     Father, — 

Nath.     I  lay  not  to  his  charge ;  I  know,  in  sooth. 
Little  of  him,  (though  I  have  supplicated,) 
And  would  not  wound  thee  with  a  dark  suspicion ; 
But  shun  the  peril  thou  art  warned  of;  shun 
What  looks  like  danger,  though  we  haply  err  : 
Be  not  alone  with  him,  I  charge  thee. 

Tam.     Seer, 
I  will  avoid  it. 

Nath.     All  is  ominous  : 
The  oracles  are  mute ;  dreams  warn  no  more ; 
Urim  and  Thummim  keep  their  glory  hid  ; 
My  days  are  dark,  my  nights  are  visionless ; 
Jehovah  hath  forsaken,  or,  in  wrath, 
Resigned  us  for  a  season.     Times  like  these 
Are  jubilee  in  hell.     Fiends  walk  the  earth, 
Misleading  princes,  tempting  poor  men's  pillows. 
Supplying  moody  Hatred  with  the  dagger, 
Lust  with  occasions.  Treason  with  excuses, 
Lifting  man's  heart,  like  the  rebellious  waves, 
Against  his  Maker.     Watch,  and  pray,  and  tremble ; 
So  may  the  Highest  overshadow  thee ! 

[Exit  Nath.] 

Tam.     His  awful  accents  freeze  my  blood. — Alas ! 
How  desolate,  how  dark  my  prospect  lowers  ! — 
O  Hadad,  is  it  thus  those  sunny  days. 
Those  sweet,  deceptive  hopes,  must  terminate. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  3I3 

When,  mixing  in  thy  gentle  looks,  I  saw 

Love  blend  with  reverence,  as  my  lips  described 

The  power,  the  patience,  purity  and  faith 

Of  our  Almighty  Father  ?     Then,  I  thought 

Thy  spirit,  softened  by  its  earthly  passion, 

Meeuy  refined,  and  tempered,  to  receive 

The  impression  of  a  love  which  never  dies. 

How  art  thou  changed !     All  tenderness  you  seemed, 

Oentle  and  social  as  a  playful  child  ; 

But  now,  in  lofty  meditation  wrapped. 

As  on  an  icy  mountain  top  thou  sit'st, 

Lonely  and  unapproachable,  or  tossest 

Upon  the  surge  of  passion,  like  the  wreck 

Of  some  proud  Tyrian  in  the  stormy  sea. 


LESSON   CXLI. 

Immortality. — Dana. 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then.  Love  ? 
And  doth  Death  cancel  the  great  bond,  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits  1     Are  thoughts,  that  know  no  bounds, 
But,  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  searching  out 
The  Eternal  Mind — the  Father  of  all  thought — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb  ? — 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  light  have  visited,  and  lived  1 — 
Lived  in  ihe  dreadful  splendor  of  that  throne, 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand,  the  vail  of  flesh 
Lifting,  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  revealed 
In  glory  ? — throne,  before  which,  even  now, 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down, 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed  1 
Souls,  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful,  unseen  Presence,  are  they  quenched. 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not ;  as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  1 
27 


314  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  with  our  frames  do  perish  all  our  loves  ? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root,  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded,  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair  unconscious  flowers  1 
Are  thoughts  and  passions,  that  to  the  tongue  give  speech. 
And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies, — 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow. 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 
With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance,— 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents  ? — no  more  ? — 
To  live  in  it,  and,  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame  1 

O  listen,  man ! 
A  voice  within  us  speaks  that  startling  word, 
"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls  :  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched,  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality : 
Thick-clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain. 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
O  listen,  ye,  our  spirits ;  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air.     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
'Tis  floating  midst  Day's  setting  glories ;  Night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears  : 
Night,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse. 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee. 
The  dying  hear  it ;  and,  as  sounds  of  earth- 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  315 

LESSON   CXLII. 
Western  Emigration. — E.  Everett. 

The  march  of  our  population  westward,  has  been  attended 
with  consequences,  in  some  degree,  novel,  in  the  history  of 
the  human  mind.  It  is  a  fact,  somewhat  difficult  of  expla- 
nation, that  the  refinement  of  the  ancient  nations  seemed 
almost  wholly  devoid  of  an  elastic  and  expansive  principle. 
The  arts  of  Greece  were  enchained  to  her  islands  and  her 
coasts ;  they  did  not  penetrate  the  interior.  The  language 
and  literature  of  Athens  were  as  unknown  to  the  north  of 
Pindus,  at  a  distance  of  two  hundred  miles  from  the  capital 
of  Grecian  refinement,  as  they  were  in  Scythia.  Thrace, 
whose  mountain  tops  may  almost  be  seen  from  the  porch  of 
the  temple  of  Minerva  at  Sunium,  was  the  proverbial  abode 
of  barbarism.  Though  the  colonies  of  Greece  were  scatter- 
ed on  the  coasts  of  Italy,  of  France,  of  Spain,  and  of  Africa, 
no  extension  of  their  population  toward  the  interior  took 
place ;  and  the  arts  did  not  penetrate  beyond  the  walls  of  the 
cities  where  they  were  cultivated. 

How  different  is  the  picture  of  the  diffusion  of  the  arts  and 
improvements  of  civilization,  from  the  coast  to  the  interior 
of  America !  Population  advances  westward  with  a  rapidity, 
which  numbers  may  describe  indeed,  but  cannot  represent, 
with  any  vivacity,  to  the  mind.  The  wilderness,  which  one 
year  is  impassable,  is  traversed  the  next  by  the  caravans  of 
the  industrious  emigrants,  who  go  to  follow  the  setting  sun, 
with  the  language,  the  institutions  and  the  arts  of  civilized 
life.  It  is  not  the  irruption  of  wild  barbarians,  come  to  visit 
the  wrath  of  God  on  a  degenerate  empire  ;  it  is  not  the  in- 
road of  disciplined  banditti,  marshalled  by  the  intrigues  of 
ministers  and  kings.  It  is  the  human  family,  led  out  to  pos- 
sess its  broad  patrimony. 

The  states  and  nations,  which  are  springing  up  in  the  val- 
ley of  the  Missouri,  are  bound  to  us  by  the  dearest  ties  of  a 
common  language,  a  common  government,  and  a  common 
descent.  Before  New  England  can  look  with  coldness  on 
their  rising  myriads,  she  must  forget  that  some  of  the  best  of 
her  own  blood  is  beating  in  their  veins ;  that  her  hardy  chil- 


316  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

dren,  with  their  axes  on  their  shoulders,  have  been  literally 
among  the  pioneers  in  this  march  of  humanity ;  that,  young 
as  she  is,  she  has  become  the  mother  of  populous  states. 

What  generous  mind  would  sacrifice,  to  a  selfish  preserva- 
tion of  local  preponderance,  the  delight  of  beholding  civil- 
ized nations  rising  up  in  the  desert ;  and  the  language,  the 
manners,  the  institutions,  to  which  he  has  been  reared,  car- 
ried with  his  household  gods  to  the  foot  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains !  Who  can  forget  that  this  extension  of  our  ter- 
ritorial limits,  is  the  extension  of  the  empire  of  all  we  hold 
dear ;  of  our  laws,  of  our  character,  of  the  memory  of  our 
ancestors,  of  the  great  achievements  in  our  history  !  Whith- 
ersoever the  sons  of  the  thirteen  states  shall  wander,  to 
southern  or  western  climes,  they  will  send  back  their  hearts 
to  the  rocky  shores,  the  battle  fields,  and  the  intrepid  coun- 
cils of  the  Atlantic  coast.  These  are  placed  beyond  the 
reach  of  vicissitude.  They  have  become,  already,  matter  of 
history,  of  poetry,  of  eloquence. 

The  love  where  death  has  set  his  seal. 
Nor  ag-e  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 
Nor  falsehood  disavow. 

Divisions  may  spring  up,  ill  blood  arise,  parties  be  formed, 
and  interests  may  seem  to  clash ;  but  the  great  bonds  of  the 
nation  are  linked  to  what  is  passed.  The  deeds  of  the  great 
men,  to  whom  this  country  owes  its  origin  and  growth,  are  a 
patrimony,  I  know,  of  which  its  children  will  never  deprive 
themselves  As  long  as  the  Mississippi  and  the  Missouri 
shall  flow,  those  men  and  those  deeds  will  be  remembered  on 
their  banks.  The  sceptre  of  government  may  go  where  it 
will;  but  that  of  patriotic  feeling  can  never  depart  from 
Judah. 


LESSON  CXLIII. 

The  God  of  Universal  Nature. — Chalmers. 

To  an  eye  which  could  spread  itself  over  the  whole  uni- 
verse,  the  mansion  which  accommodates  our  species  might 


rOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  317 

be  so  very  small,  as  to  lie  wrapped  in  microscopical  conceal- 
ment ;  and,  in  reference  to  the  only  Being  who  possesses  this 
universal  eye,  well  might  we  say,  "  What  is  man,  that  thou 
art  mindful  of  him,  or  the  son  of  man,  that  thou  shouldest 
deign  to  visit  him  ?" 

And,  after  all,  though  it  be  a  mighty  and  difficult  concep- 
tion, yet  who  can  question  it  ?  What  is  seen  may  be  nothing 
to  what  is  unseen ;  for  what  is  seen  is  limited  by  the  range 
of  our  instruments, — what  is  unseen  has  no  limit.  Though 
all  which  the  eye  of  man  can  take  in,  or  his  fancy  can 
grasp  at,  were  swept  away,  there  might  still  remain  as 
ample  -a  field,  over  which  the  Divinity  may  expatiate,  and 
which  he  may  have  peopled  with  innumerable  worlds.  If  the 
whole  visible  creation  were  to  disappear,  it  would  leave  a 
solitude  behind  it ;  but  to  the  infinite  Mind,  that  can  take  in 
the  whole  system  of  nature,  this  solitude  might  be  nothing, — 
a  small,  unoccupied  point  in  that  immensity  which  sur- 
rounds it,  and  which  he  may  have  filled  with  the  wonders  of 
his  omnipotence. 

Though  this  earth  were  to  be  burned  up,  though  the  trum- 
pet of  its  dissolution  were  sounded,  though  yon  sky  were  to 
pass  away  as  a  scroll,  and  every  visible  glory,  which  the 
finger  of  Divinity  has  inscribed  on  it,  were  to  be  put  out  for- 
ever,— an  event  so  awful,  to  us  and  to  every  world  in  our 
vicinity ;  by  which  so  many  suns  would  be  extinguished,  and 
so  many  varied  scenes  of  life  and  of  population,  would  rush 
into  forgetfulness, — what  is  it  in  the  high  scale  of  the  Al- 
mighty's workmanship?  A  mere  shred,  which,  though  scat- 
tered into  nothing,  would  leave  the  universe  of  God  one 
entire  scene  of  greatness  and  of  majesty.  Though  this  earth, 
and  these  heavens,  were  to  disappear,  there  are  other  worlds 
which  roll  afar ;  the  light  of  other  suns  shines  upon  them ; 
and  the  sky  which  mantles  them,  is  garnished  with  other 
stars. 

Is  it  presumption  to  say,  that  the  moral  world  extends  to 
those  distant  and  unknown  regions  ?  that  they  are  occupied 
with  people  ?  that  the  charities  of  home  and  of  neighborhood 
flourish  there  ?  that  the  praises  of  God  are  there  lifted  up, 
and  his  goodness  rejoiced  in  1  that  piety  has  its  temples  and' 
its  offerings  ?  and  the  richness  of  the  divine  attributes,  is 
27* 


318  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

there  felt  and  admired  by  intelligent  worshippers?  Am! 
what  is  this  world,  in  the  immensity  which  teems  with  them  1 
and  what  are  they  who  occupy  it  ? 

The  universe  at  large  would  suffer  as  little,  in  its  splendor 
and  variety,  by  the  destruction  of  our  planet,  as  the  verdure 
and  sublime  magnitude  of  a  forest,  would  suffer  by  the  fall  of 
a  single  leaf.  The  leaf  quivers  on  the  branch  which  sup- 
ports it.  It  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the  slightest  accident.  A 
breath  of  wind  tears  it  from  its  stem,  and  it  lights  on  the 
stream  of  water  which  passes  underneath.  In  a  moment, 
the  life,  which,  we  know  by  the  microscope,  it  teems  with, 
is  extinguished ;  and  an  occurrence  so  insignificant  in  the 
eye  of  man,  and  on  the  scale  of  his  observation,  carries 
in  it,  to  the  myriads  which  people  this  little  leaf,  an  event  as 
terrible  and  as  decisive  as  the  destruction  of  a  world. 

Now,  on  the  grand  scale  of  the  universe,  we,  the  occupi- 
ers of  this  ball — which  performs  its  little  round,  among  the 
suns  and  the  systems  that  astronomy  has  unfolded — we  may 
feel  the  same  littleness  and  the  same  insecurity.  We  dif- 
fer from  the  leaf  only  in  this  circumstance,  that  it  would 
require  the  operation  of  greater  elements  to  destroy  us.  But 
these  elements  exist ;  and,  if  let  loose  upon  us  by  the  hand  of 
the  Almighty,  they  would  spread  solitude,  and  silence,  and 
death,  over  the  dominions  of  the  world. 

Now,  it  is  this  littleness,  and  this  insecurity,  which  make 
the  protection  of  the  Almighty  so  dear  to  us,  and  bring,  with 
such  emphasis,  to  every  pious  bosom,  the  holy  lessons  of 
humility  and  gratitude.  The  God  who  sits  above,  and 
presides  in  high  authority  over  all  worlds,  is  mindful  of  man ; 
and,  though  at  this  moment  his  energy  is  felt  in  the  re- 
motest provinces  of  creation,  we  may  feel  the  same  security 
in  his  providence,  as  if  we  were  the  objects  of  his  undivided 
care. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  bring  our  minds  up  to  this  mysterious 
agency.  But  such  is  the  incomprehensible  fact,  that  the 
same  Being,  whose  eye  is  abroad  over  the  whole  universe, 
gives  vegetation  to  every  blade  of  grass,  and  motion  to  every 
particle  of  blood  which  circulates  through  the  veins  of  the 
minutest  animal ;  that,  though  his  mind  takes  into  its  com- 
prehensive grasp,  immensity  and  all  its  wonders,  T  am  as 


YOUNG  LADIES    CLASS  BOOK.  3I9 

much  known  to  him  as  if  I  were  the  single  object  of  his  at- 
tention ;  that  he  marks  all  my  thoughts ;  that  he  gives  birth 
to  every  feeling  and  every  movement  within  me ;  and  that, 
with  an  exercise  of  power  which  I  can  neither  describe  nor 
comprehend,  the  same  God,  who  sits  in  the  highest  heaven, 
and  reigns  over  the  glories  of  the  firmament,  is  at  my  right 
hand,  to  give  me  every  breath  which  I  draw,  and  every  com- 
fort which  I  enjoy. 


LESSON  CXLIV. 
Rome. — Byron. 

O  Rome  !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul  I 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires,  and  control 

In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?     Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 

O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples ;  ye. 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands,  •• 

Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  wo ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands. 

Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ; 

The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now  j 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 

Of  their  heroic  dwellers.     Dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber,  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress ! 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood!;iand  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride ; 

She  saw  her  glories,  star  by  star,  expire. 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride. 


320  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Where  the  car  climbed  the  capitol ;  far  and  wide, 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site : — 

Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "  Here  was,  or  is  "  where  all  is  doubly  night? 

Alas !  the  lofty  city  !  and  alas ! 

The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 

The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away ! 

Alas !  for  Tully's  voice  and  Virgil's  lay. 
And  Livy's  pictured  page  !  but  these  shall  be 

Her  resurrection  ;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas !  for  earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye,  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free ! 


LESSON   CXLV. 

Dialogue  : — Rienzi  and  Angela. — Miss  Mitford. 

Rienzi.     Friends, 
I  come  not  here  to  talk.     Ye  know  too  well 
The  story  of  our  thraldom.     We  are  slaves ! 
The  bright  sun  rises  to  his  course,  and  lights 
A  race  of  slaves  !     He  sets,  and  his  last  beam 
Falls  on  a  slave; — not  such  as,  swept  along 
By  the  full  tide  of  power,  the  conqueror  leads 
To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame  ; 
But  base,  ignoble  slaves — slaves  to  a  horde 
Of  petty  tyrants,  feudal  despots,  lords. 
Rich  in  some  dozen  paltry  villages — 
Strong  in  some  hundred  spearmen — only  great 
In  that  strange  spell,  a  name.     Each  hour,  dark  fraud, 
Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder, 
Cries  out  against  them.     But  this  very  day, 
An  honest  man,  my  neighbor, — there  he  stands, — 
Was  struck — struck  like  a  dog — by  one  who  wore 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK/  321 

The  badge  of  Ursini ;  because,  forsooth, 

He  tossed  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air, 

Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts. 

At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian.     Be  we  men, 

And  suffer  such  dishonor?  men,  and  wash  not 

The  stain  away  in  blood  ]     Such  shames  are  common. 

I  have  known  deeper  wrongs.     I,  that  speak  to  you, 

I  had  a  brother  once,  a  gracious  boy. 

Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope. 

Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy  ;  there  was  the  look 

Of  heaven  upon  his  face,  which  limners  give 

To  the  beloved  disciple.     How  I  loved 

That  gracious  boy  !     Younger  by  fifteen  years, 

Brother  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side, 

A  summer  bloom  on  his  fair  cheeks,  a  smile 

Parting  his  innocent  lips.     In  one  short  hour. 

The  pretty,  harmless  boy  was  slain !     I  saw 

The  corse,  the  mangled  corse,  and  then  I  cried 

For  vengeance. — Rouse,  ye  Romans !     Rouse,  ye  slaves  I 

Have  ye  brave  sons  ?     Look,  in  the  next  fierce  brawl, 

To  see  them  die.     Have  ye  fair  daughters  ?     Look 

To  see  them  live,  torn  from  your  arms,  distained, 

Dishonored ;  and,  if  ye  dare  call  for  justice, 

Be  answered  by  the  lash.     Yet  this  is  Rome, 

That  sat    on  her  seven  hills,  and,  from  her  throne 

Of  beauty,  ruled  the  world  !     Yet  we  are  Romans. 

Why,  in  that  elder  day,  to  be  a  Roman 

Was  greater  than  a  king !     And  once,  again. 

Hear  me,  ye  walls,  that  echoed  to  the  tread 

Of  either  Brutus !  once  again,  I  swear. 

The  eternal  city  shall  be  free ;  her  sons 

Shall  walk  with  princes.  ( 

Angela.     (Entering.)     What  be  ye. 
That  thus,  in  stern  and  watchful  mystery. 
Cluster  beneath  the  vail  of  night,  and  start 
To  hear  a  stranger's  foot  ? 

Rie.     Romans. 

Ang.     And  wherefore 
Meet  ye,  my  countrymen  1 

Rie.     For  freedom. 


322  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Ang.     Surely 
Thou  art  Cola  di  Rienzi  ? 

Rie.     Ay,  the  voice — 
The  traitor  voice. 

Ang.     I  knovi^  thee  by  the  words. 
Who,  save  thyself,  in  this  bad  age,  when  man 
Lies  prostrate  like  yon  temple,  dared  conjoin 
The  sounds  of  Rome  and  freedom  ? 

Rie.     1  shall  teach 
The  world  to  blend  those  words,  as  in  the  days 
Before  the  Csesars.     Thou  shalt  be  the  first 
To  hail  the  union.     I  have  seen  thee  hang 
On  tales  of  the  world's  mistress,  till  thine  eyes, 
Flooded  with  strong  emotion,  have  let  fall 
Big  tear-drops  on  thy  cheeks,  and  thy  young  hand 
Hath  clenched  thy  maiden  sword.     Unsheath  it  now — 
Now,  at  thy  country's  call  !     What,  dost  thou  pause  ? 
Is  the  flame  quenched  ?     Dost  falter  ?     Hence  with  thee  ! 
Pass  on  !  pass  whilst  thou  may  ! 

Ang.     Hear  me,  Rienzi. 
Even  now  my  spirit  leaps  up  at  the  thought 
Of  those  brave  storied  days — a  treasury 
Of  matchless  visions,  bright  and  glorified, 
Paling  the  dim  lights  of  this  darkling  world 
With  the  golden  blaze  of  heaven,  but  past  and  gone, 
As  clouds  of  yesterday,  as  last  night's  dream. 

Rie.     A  dream  !     Dost  see  yon  phalanx,  still  and  stern  1 
A  hundred  leaders,  each  with  such  a  band, 
So  armed,  so  resolute,  so  fixed  in  will, 
Wait  with  suppressed  impatience  till  they  hear 
The  great  bell  of  the  capitol,  to  spring 
At  once  on  their  proud  foes.     Join  them. 

Ang.     My  father ! 

Rie.     Already  he  hath  quitted  Rome. 

Ang.     My  kinsmen ! 

Rie.     We  are  too  strong  for  contest.     Thou  shalt  see 
No  other  change,  within  our  peaceful  streets, 
Than  that  of  slaves  to  freemen ;  such  a  change 
As  is  the  silent  step  from  night  to  day, 
From  darkness  into  light.     We  talk  too  long. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  323 

Ang.     Yet  reason  with  them — warn  them. 

Rie.     And  their  answer 
Will  be  the  jail,  the  gibbet,  or  the  axe — 
The  keen  retort  of  power.     Why,  •!  have  reasoned  ; 
And,  but  that  I  am  held,  amongst  your  great  ones, 
Half  madman  and  half  fool,  these  bones  of  mine 
Had  whitened  on  yon  wall.     Warn  them!     They  met, 
At  every  step,  dark  warnings.     The  pure  air, 
Where'er  they  passed,  was  heavy  with  the  weight 
Of  sullen  silence  ;  friend  met  friend,  nor  smiled, 
Till  the  last  footfall  of  the  tyrant's  steed 
Had  died  upon  the  ear ;  and,  low  and  hoarse, 
Hatred  came  murmuring  like  the  deep  voice 
Of  the  wind  before  the  tempest. 

Ang.     I'll  join  ye ; 

l^Gives  Ms  hand  to  Rienzi.'\ 
How  shall  I  swear  1 

Rie.     (To  the  people.)     Friends,  comrades,  countrymen, 
I  bring  unhoped-for  aid.     Young  Angelo, 
The  immediate  heir  of  the  Colonna,  craves 
To  join  your  band. 

Ang.     Hear  me  13 wear 
By  Home,  by  freedom,  by  Rienzi !     Comrades, 
How  have  ye  titled  your  deliverer  ?  Consul, 
Dictator,  emperor  1 

Rie.     No ; 
Those  names  have  been  so  often  steeped  in  blood, 
So  shamed  by  folly,  so  profaned  by  sin. 
The  sound  seems  ominous. — I'll  none  of  them. 
Call  me  the  tribune  of  the  people ;  there 
My  honoring  duty  lies.     Hark — the  bell,  the  bell ! 
The  knell  of  tyranny  !  the  mighty  voice. 
That  to  the  city  and  the  plain,  to  earth, 
And  listening  heaven,  proclaims  the  glorious  tale 
Of  Rome  reborn,  and  freedom !    See,  the  clouds 
Are  swept  away,  and  the  moon's  boat  of  light 
Sails  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  million  stars 
Look  out  on  us,  and  smile. 


324  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  CXLVI. 

Dignity  and  Excellence  of  the  Poetical  Art. — Channing. 

Poetry  seems  to  us  the  divinest  of  all  arts ;  for  it  is  the 
breathing  or  expression  of  that  principle  or  sentiment,  which 
is  deepest  and  sublimest  in  human  nature ;  we  mean,  of  that 
thirst  or  aspiration,  to  which  no  mind  is  wholly  a  stranger, 
for  something  purer  and  lovelier,  something  more  powerful, 
lofty  and  thrilling,  than  ordinary  and  real  life  affords.  No 
doctrine  is  more  common  among  Christians  than  that  of 
man's  immortality  ;  but  it  is  not  so  generally  understood,  that 
the  germs  or  principles  of  his  whole  future  being  are  now 
wrapped  up  in  his  soul,  as  the  rudiments  of  the  future  plant 
in  the  seed.  As  a  necessary  result  of  this  constitution,  the 
soul,  possessed  and  moved  by  these  mighty  though  infant  en- 
ergies, is  perpetually  stretching  beyond  what  is  present  and 
visible,  struggling  against  the  bounds  of  its  earthly  prison- 
house,  and  seeking  relief  and  joy  in  imaginings  of  unseen 
and  ideal  being. 

This  view  of  our  nature,  which  has  never  been  fully  de- 
veloped, and  which  goes  farther  towards  explaining  the  con- 
tradictions of  human  life  than  all  others,  carries  us  to  the 
very  foundation  and  sources  of  poetry.  He  who  cannot  in- 
terpret, by  his  own  consciousness,  what  we  now  have  said, 
wants  the  true  key  to  works  of  genius.  He  has  not  penetrat- 
ed those  sacred  recesses  of  the  soul,  where  poetry  is  born 
and  nourished,  and  inhales  immortal  vigor,  and  wings  herself 
for  her  heaven-ward  flight.  In  an  intellectual  nature,  framed 
for  progress  and  for  higher  modes  of  being,  there  must  be 
creative  energies,  powers  of  original  and  ever-growing 
thought ;  and  poetry  is  the  form  in  which  these  energies  are 
chiefly  manifested. 

It  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of  this  art,  that  it  "  makes  all 
things  new"  for  the  gratification  of  a  divine  instinct.  It 
indeed  finds  its  elements  in  what  it  actually  sees  and  experi- 
ences, in  the  worlds  of  matter  and  mind ;  but  it  combines 
and  blends  these  into  new  forms,  and  according  to  new  aflin- 
ities ;  breaks  down,  if  we  may  so  say,  the  distinctions  and 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  325 

bounds  of  nature ;  imparts  to  material  objects  life,  and  senti- 
ment, and  emotion,  and  invests  the  mind  with  the  powers 
and  splendors  of  the  outward  creation ;  describes  the  sur- 
rounding universe  in  the  colors  which  the  passions  throw 
over  it,  and  depicts  the  soul  in  those  modes  of  repose  or  agi- 
tation, of  tenderness  or  sublime  emotion,  which  manifest  its 
thirst  for  a  more  powerful  and  joyful  existence.  To  a  man 
of  a  literal  and  prosaic  character,  the  mind  may  seem  law- 
less in  these  workings ;  but  it  observes  higher  laws  than  it 
transgresses — the  laws  of  the  immortal  intellect;  it  is  trying 
and  developing  its  best  faculties  ;  and  in  the  objects  which  it 
describes,  or  in  the  emotions  which  it  awakens,  anticipates 
those  states  of  progressive  power,  splendor,  beauty  and  hap- 
piness, for  which  it  was  created. 

We  accordingly  believe  that  poetry,  far  from  injuring  soci- 
ety, is  one  of  the  great  instruments  of  its  refinement  and 
exaltation.  It  lifts  the  mind  above  ordinary  life,  gives  it  a 
respite  from  depressing  cares,  and  awakens  the  consciousness 
of  its  affinity  with  what  is  pure  and  noble.  In  its  legitimate 
and  highest  efforts,  it  has  the  same  tendency  and  aim  with 
Christianity  ;  that  is,  to  spiritualize  our  nature.  True,  poe- 
try has  been  made  the  instrument  of  vice,  the  pander  of  bad 
passions ;  but  when  genius  thus  stoops,  it  dims  its  fires,  and 
parts  with  much  of  its  power ;  and  even  when  poetry  is  en- 
slaved to  licentiousness  or  misanthropy,  she  cannot  wholly 
forget  her  true  vocation.  Strains  of  pure  feeling,  touches  of 
tenderness,  images  of  innocent  happiness,  sympathies  with 
suffering  virtue,  bursts  of  scorn  or  indignation  at  the  hollow- 
ness  of  the  world,  passages  true  to  our  moral  nature,  often 
escape  in  an  immoral  work,  and  show  us  how  hard  it  is  for 
a  gifted  spirit  to  divorce  itself  wholly  from  what  is  good. 

Poetry  has  a  natural  alliance  with  our  best  affections.  It 
delights  in  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the  outward  creation 
and  of  the  soul.  It  indeed  portrays,  with  terrible  energy, 
the  excesses  of  the  passions ;  but  they  are  passions  which 
show  a  mighty  nature,  which  are  full  of  power,  which  com- 
mand awe,  and  excite  a  deep,  though  shuddering  sympathy. 
Its  great  tendency  and  purpose  is,  to  carry  the  mind  beyond 
and  above  the  beaten,  dusty,  weary  walks  of  ordinary  life ; 
to  lifl  it  into  a  purer  element ;  and  to  breathe  into  it  more 
28 


326  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

profound  and  generous  emotion.  Tt  reveals  to  us  the  loveli- 
ness of  nature ;  brings  back  the  freshness  of  early  feeling ; 
revives  the  relish  of  simple  pleasures ;  keeps  unquenched  the 
enthusiasm  which  warmed  the  spring-time  of  our  being ;  re- 
fines youthful  love ;  strengthens  our  interest  in  human  nature 
by  vivid  delineations  of  its  tenderest  and  loftiest  feelings ; 
spreads  our  sympathies  over  all  classes  of  society  ;  knits  us  by 
new  ties  with  universal  being ;  and,  through  the  brightness  of 
its  prophetic  visions,  helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the  future  life. 

We  are  aware,  that  it  is  objected  to  poetry,  that  it  gives 
wrong  views  and  excites  false  expectations  of  life,  peoples 
the  mind  with  shadows  and  illusions,  and  builds  up  imagina- 
tion on  the  ruins  of  wisdom.  That  there  is  a  wisdom 
against  which  poetry  wars, — the  wisdom  of  the  senses,  which 
makes  physical  comfort  and  gratification  the  supreme  good, 
and  wealth  the  chief  interest  of  life, — we  do  not  deny  ;  nor  do 
we  deem  it  the  least  service  which  poetry  renders  to  mankind, 
that  it  redeems  them  from  the  thraldom  of  this  earthborn 
prudence. 

But,  passing  over  this  topic,  we  would  observe,  that  the 
complaint  against  poetry,  as  abounding  in  illusion  and  decep- 
tion, is,  in  the  main,  groundless.  In  many  poems  there  is 
more  of  truth,  than  in  many  histories  and  philosophic  theories. 
The  fictions  of  genius  are  often  the  vehicles  of  the  sublimest 
verities ;  and  its  flashes  often  open  new  regions  of  thought, 
and  throw  new  light  on  the  mysteries  of  our  being.  In 
poetry,  when  the  letter  is  falsehood,  the  spirit  is  often  pro- 
foundest  wisdom.  And  if  truth  thus  dwells  in  the  boldest 
fictions  of  the  poet,  much  more  may  it  be  expected  in  his  de- 
lineations of  life ;  for  the  present  life,  which  is  the  first  stage 
of  the  immortal  mind,  abounds  in  the  materials  of  poetry ; 
and  it  is  the  high  office  of  the  bard,  to  detect  this  divine 
element  among  the  grosser  labors  and  pleasures  of  our  earthly 
being. 

The  present  life  is  not  wholly  prosaic,  precise,  tame  and 
finite.  To  the  gifted  eye,  it  abounds  in  the  poetic.  The 
affections  which  spread  beyond  ourselves,  and  stretch  far  into 
futurity ;  the  workings  of  mighty  passions,  which  seem  to 
arm  the  soul  with  an  almost  superhuman  energy ;  the  inno- 
cent and  irrepressible  joy  of  infancy ;  the  bloom,  and  buoy- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  327 

ancy,  and  dazzling  hopes  of  youth ,  the  throbbings  of  the 
heart,  when  it  first  wakes  to  love,  and  dreams  of  a  happiness 
too  vast  for  earth ;  woman,  with  her  beauty,  and  grace,  and 
gentleness,  and  fulness  of  feeling,  and  depth  of  affection,  and 
blushes  of  purity,  and  the  tones  and  looks  which  only  a 
mother's  heart  can  inspire  ; — these  are  all  poetical.  It  is  not 
true,  that  the  poet  paints  a  life  which  does  not  exist.  He 
only  extracts  and  concentrates,  as  it  were,  life's  ethereal  es- 
sence ;  arrests  and  condenses  its  volatile  fragrance ;  brings 
together  its  scattered  beauties,  and  prolongs  its  more  refined 
but  evanescent  joys.  And  in  this  he  does  well ;  for  it  is 
good  to  feel  that  life  is  not  wholly  usurped  by  cares  for  sub- 
sistence, and  physical  gratifications,  but  admits,  in  measures 
which  may  be  indefinitely  enlarged,  sentiments  and  delights 
worthy  of  a  higher  being. 

This  power  of  poetry  to  refine  our  views  of  life  and  hap- 
piness, is  more  and  more  needed  as  society  advances.  It  is 
needed  to  withstand  the  encroachments  of  heartless  and  ar- 
tificial manners,  which  make  civilization  so  tame  and  unin- 
teresting. It  is  needed  to  counteract  the  tendency  of  physi- 
cal science,  which  being  now  sought,  not,  as  formerly,  for 
intellectual  gratification,  but  for  multiplying  bodily  comforts, 
requires  a  new  development  of  imagination,  taste  and  poetry, 
to  preserve  men  from  sinking  into  an  earthly,  material.  Epi- 
curean life. 


LESSON  CXLVII. 

Popular  Institutions  favorable  to  intellectual  Improvement. — 
E.  Everett. 

Mental  energy  has  been  equally  diffused  by  sterner  level- 
ers  than  ever  marched  in  the  van  of  a  revolution — the  nature 
of  man  and  the  providence  of  God.  Native  character, 
strength,  and  quickness  of  mind,  are  not  of  the  number  of 
distinctions  and  accomplishments,  that  human  institutions 
can  monopolize  within  a  city's  walls.  In  quiet  times,  they 
remain  and  perish  in  the  obscurity,  to  which  a  false  organiza- 
tion of  society  consigns  them.    In  dangerous,  convulsed,  and 


328  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

trying  times,  they  spring  up  in  the  fields,  in  the  village  ham- 
lets, and  on  the  mountain  tops,  and  teach  the  surprised  favor- 
ites of  human  law,  that  bright  eyes,  skilful  hands,  quick  per- 
ceptions, firm  purpose,  and  brave  hearts,  are  not  the  exclu- 
sive appanage  of  courts. 

Our  popular  institutions  are  favorable  to  intellectual  im- 
provement, because  their  foundation  is  in  dear  nature.  They 
do  not  consign  the  greater  part  of  the  social  frame  to  torpidi- 
ty and  mortification.  They  send  out  a  vital  nerve  to  every 
member  of  the  community,  by  which  its  talent  and  power, 
great  or  small,  are  brought  into  living  conjunction  and  strong 
sympathy  with  the  kindred  intellect  of  the  nation  ;  and  every 
impression  on  every  part  vibrates,  with  electric  rapidity, 
through  the  whole.  They  encourage  nature  to  perfect  her 
work;  they  make  education,  the  soul's  nutriment,  cheap; 
they  bring  up  remote  and  shrinking  talent  into  the  cheerful 
field  of  competition  ;  in  a  thousand  ways,  they  provide  an  au- 
dience for  lips,  which  nature  has  touched  with  persuasion ; 
they  put  a  lyre  into  the  hands  of  genius ;  they  bestow  on  all 
who  deserve  it,  or  seek  it,  the  only  patronage  worth  having, 
the  only  patronage  that  ever  struck  out  a  spark  of  "  celestial 
fire," — the  patronage  of  fair  opportunity. 

This  is  a  day  of  improved  education  ;  new  systems  of 
teaching  are  devised ;  modes  of  instruction,  choice  of  studies, 
adaptation  of  text-books,  the  whole  machinery  of  means, 
have  been  brought  in  our  day  under  severe  revision.  But 
were  I  to  attempt  to  point  out  the  most  efficacious  and  com- 
prehensive improvement  in  education,  the  engine,  by  which 
the  greatest  portion  of  mind  could  be  brought  and  kept 
under  cultivation,  the  discipline  which  would  reach  farthest, 
sink  deepest,  and  cause  the  word  of  instruction  not  to 
spread  over  the  surface,  like  an  artificial  hue,  carefully  laid 
on,  but  to  penetrate  to  the  heart  and  soul  of  its  objects, — it 
would  be  popular  institutions.  Give  the  people  an  object  in 
promoting  education,  and  the  best  methods  will  infallibly  be 
suggested  by  that  instinctive  ingenuity  of  our  nature,  which 
provides  means  for  great  and  precious  ends.  Give  the  people 
an  object  in  promoting  education,  and  the  worn  hand  of  la- 
bor will  be  opened  to  the  last  farthing,  that  its  children  may 
enjoy  means  denied  to  itself. 


r 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  ^^ 

LESSON    CXLVIII. 

After  a  Tempest. — Bryant. 

The  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm ; — 

The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  overpassed, 
And,  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm, 

Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 

I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene. 

Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains  vast, 
And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green. 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out,  and  villages  between 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 

Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not  stirred, 
Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 

Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird  ; 

For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were  heard 
About  the  flowers ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 

And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward ; 
To  the  gray  oak,  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung. 
And,  chirping,  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper  upsprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves,  that  kept  them  dry, 

Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there. 
And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 

That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 

The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
The  violent  rain  had  pent  them ;  in  the  way 

Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicsome  and  fair ; 
The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay. 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were  at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace  ;  and,  like  a  spell, 

Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 
Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  dell, 

And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 

28* 


330         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  glassy  river,  and  white  waterfall, 
And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 

And  beauteous  scene ;  while,  far  beyond  them  all, 
On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same  soft,  golden  light 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 

An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 
When  o'er  earth's  continents,  and  isles  between, 

The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea. 

And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony ; 
When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one. 

No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 
Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 
The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life  were  done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers. 

And  pools  of  blood,  the  earth  has  stood  aghast — 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with  flowers 
And  ruddy  fruits :  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm ;  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis  past. 

Lo !  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly ; 
And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing  sky. 
On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  Heaven  shall  lie. 


LESSON  CXLIX. 

The  Rejected.^T.  H.  Bayley. 

Not  have  me  1     Not  love  me  !     Oh,  what  have  I  said  1 
Sure  never  was  lover  so  strangely  misled. 
Rejected  !  and  just  when  I  hoped  to  be  blessed  ! 
You  can't  be  in  earnest !     It  must  be  a  jest. 

Remember — remember  how  often  I've  knelt. 
Explicitly  telling  you  all  that  I  felt. 
And  talked  about  poison  in  accents  so  wild, 
So  very  like  torture,  you  started — and  smiled. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  331 

Not  have  me  !     Not  love  me  !     Oh,  what  have  I  done  1 

All  natural  nourishment  did  I  not  shun  1 

My  figure  is  wasted ;  my  spirits  are  lost ; 

And  my  eyes  are  deep  sunk,  like  the  eyes  of  a  ghost. 

Remember,  remember — ay,  madam,  you  must — 
I  once  was  exceedingly  stout  and  robust ; 
I  rode  by  your  palfrey,  I  came  at  your  call. 
And  nightly  went  with  you  to  banquet  and  ball. 

Not  have  me  !     Not  love  me !     Rejected !     Refused  ! 
Sure  never  was  lover  so  strangely  ill  used ! 
Consider  my  presents — I  don't  mean  to  boast — 
But,  madam,  consider  the  money  they  cost ! 

Remember  you've  worn  them  ;  and  just  can  it  be 

To  take  all  my  trinkets,  and  not  to  take  me  ? 

Nay,  don't  throw  them  at  me  ! — You'll  break — do  not  start — 

I  don't  mean  my  gifts — but  you  will  break  my  heart ! 

Not  have  me  J     Not  love  me !     Not  go  to  the  church ! 
Sure  never  was  lover  so  left  in  the  lurch ! 
My  brain  is  distracted,  my  feelings  are  hurt ; 
Oh,  madam,  don't  tempt  me  to  call  you  a  flirt. 

Remember  my  letters  ;  my  passion  they  told ; 

Yes,  all  sorts  of  letters,  save  letters  of  gold ; 

The  amount  of  my  notes,  too — the  notes  that  I  penned, 

Not  bank  notes — no,  truly,  I  had  none  to  send  I 

Not  have  me  !     Not  love  me  !     And  is  it,  then,  true 
That  opulent  Age  is  the  lover  for  you? 
'Gainst  rivalry's  bloom  I  would  strive — 'tis  too  much 
To  yield  to  the  terrors  of  rivalry's  crutch. 

Remember — remember  I  might  call  him  out ; 
But,  madam,  you  are  not  worth  fighting  about ; 
My  sword  shall  be  stainless  in  blade  and  in  hilt ; 
I  thought  you  a  jewel — I  find  you  a  jilt. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


LESSON   CL. 

Rhine  Song  of  the  German  Soldiers  after  Victory* — 
Mrs.  Hemans. 


"  At  the  first  gleam  of  the  river,  they  all  burst  forth  into  the  national  chant 
*  Am  Rhein!  Am  Rhein."  They  were  two  days  passing  over,  and  the  rocks 
and  the  castle  were  ringing  to  the  song  the  whole  time ;  for  each  band  re- 
newed it  while  crossing ;  and  the  Cossacks,  with  the  clash,  and  the  clang,  ana 
the  roll  of  their  stormy  war-music,  catching  the  enthusiasm  of  the  scene,  swell- 
ed forth  the  chorus,  '  Am  Rhein  !  Am  Rhein ."  " 


Single  Voice. 

It  is  the  Rhine !  our  mountain  vineyards  laving  ; 

I  see  the  bright  flood  shine ; 
Sing  on  the  march,  with  every  banner  waving, 

Sing,  brothers  !  'tis  the  Rhine  ! 

Chorus. 
The  Rhine,  the  Rhine  !  our  own  imperial  river ! 

Be  glory  on  thy  track  ! 
We  left  thy  shores,  to  die  or  to  deliver ; 

We  bear  thee  freedom  back. 

Single  Voice. 
Hail !  Hail !     My  childhood  knew  thy  rush  of  water, 

Even  as  my  mother's  song  ; 
That  sound  went  past  me  on  the  field  of  slaughter. 

And  heart  and  arm  grew  strong. 

Chorus. 
Roll  proudly  on  !    Brave  blood  is  with  thee  sweeping, 

Poured  out  by  sons  of  thine. 
When  sword  and  spirit  forth  in  joy  were  leaping. 

Like  thee,  victorious  Rhine  ! 


tellng.  *'''°"''  ""^  ^^''  '°"^  ""^^  "^""^  ^  ^  ^°^  exercise  for  simultaneous 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  333 

Single  Voice. 
Home  !  Home  I — thy  glad  wave  hath  a  tone  of  greeting, — 

Thy  path  is  by  my  home  : 
Even  now  my  children  count  the  hours,  till  meeting. 

O  ransomed  ones,  I  come ! 

Chojnis. 

Go,  tell  the  seas  that  chain  shall  bind  thee  never ; 

Sound  on,  by  hearth  and  shrine ; 
Sing  through  the  hills  that  thou  art  free  for  ever ; 

Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  Rhine ! 


LESSON  CLI. 

The  Isles  of  Greece. — Byron. 

The  isles  of  Greece !  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, — 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet  ; 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  j 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds,  which  echo  farther  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Blessed." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And,  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

% 


334  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

A  king  sat    on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations ; — all  were  his  I 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  ; 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ; 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel,  at  least,  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks,  a  blush — for  Greece,  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blessed? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?— Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth,  render  back,  from  out  thy  breast, 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ; 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae. 

What,  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  !  no ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise, — we  come  !  we  come  !" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who"  are  dumb. 

In  vain,  in  vain  :  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes. 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ; 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  335' 

Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet — 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  1  ^ 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 
*       #       *       «=       4»       «       * 
Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 

They  have  a  king,  who  buys  and  sells. 
In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 
But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 


LESSON  CLIL 
Liberty  to  Athens. — J.  G.  Percival. 

The  flag  of  freedom  floats  once  more 

Around  the  lofty  Parthenon ; 
It  waves,  as  waved  the  palm  of  yore, 

In  days  departed  long  and  gone ; 
As  bright  a  glory,  from  the  skies. 

Pours  down  its  light  around  those  towers, 
And  once  again  the  Greeks  arise, 

As  in  their  country's  noblest  hours ; 


336  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Their  swords  are  girt  in  virtue's  cause, 
Minerva's  sacred  hill  is  free — 

Oh  !  may  she  keep  her  equal  lavi^s, 

While  man  shall  live,  and  time  shall  be. 

The  pride  of  all  her  shrines  went  down  ; 

The  Goth,  the  Frank,  the  Turk  had  reft 
The  laurel  from  her  civic  crown  ; 

Her  helm  by  many  a  sword  was  cleft : 
She  lay  among  her  ruins  low — 

Where  grew  the  palm,  the  cypress  rose, 
And,  crushed  and  bruised  by  many  a  blow, 

She  cowered  beneath  her  savage  foes ; 
But  now,  again  she  springs  from  earth. 

Her  loud,  awakening  trumpet  speaks ; 
She  rises  in  a  brighter  birth, 

And  sounds  redemption  to  the  Greeks. 

It  is  the  classic  jubilee — 

Their  servile  years  have  rolled  away  j 
The  clouds  that  hovered  o'er  them  flee. 

They  hail  the  dawn  of  freedom's  day ; 
From  Heaven  the  golden  light  descends. 

The  times  of  old  are  on  the  wing, 
And  glory  there  her  pinion  bends. 

And  beauty  wakes  a  fairer  spring ; 
The  hills  of  Greece,  her  rocks,  her  waves, 

Are  all  in  triumph's  pomp  arrayed  ; 
A  light  that  points  their  tyrants'  graves, 

Plays  round  each  bold  Athenian's  blade. 


.      LESSON  CLHI. 

The  moral  Principles  of  the  Bible  of  universal  Application. 
— Wayland. 

We  possess  taste,  which  is  gratified  by  our  progress  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  qualities  and  relations  of  things,  which 
delights  in  the  beautiful,  and  glories  in  the  vast ;  and,  also,  a 


yOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  337 

conscience,  which  is  susceptible  of  affections  peculiar  to 
itself,  upon  the  doing  of  right,  or  the  commission  of  wrong  ; 
and  these  affections,  so  far  as  his  history  has  been  traced, 
have  more  to  do  than  any  other  with  the  happiness  or  misery 
of  man.  Taking  these  facts  for  granted,  it  is  not  difficult  to 
foretell  what  sort  of  intellectual  and  moral  exhibitions  will 
be  most  widely  disseminated,  transforming  the  human  char- 
acter and  directing  the  human  will.  It  is  upon  the  suppo- 
sition, that  we  may  thus  judge  what  will,  in  a  particular 
manner,  affect  the  human  mind,  that  the  whole  science  both 
of  criticism  and  rhetoric  is  founded, 

I  have  said  that  taste  is  gratified  by  progress  in  knowledge 
of  the  qualities  and  relations  of  things,  or  by  striking  exhibi- 
tions of  what  is  commonly  called  relative  beauty.  Hence 
the  pleasure  with  which  we  contemplate  a  theorem  of  widely 
extended  application  in  the  sciences,  or  an  invention  of  im- 
portant utility  in  the  arts.  Now,  it  is  found  that  the  material 
universe  has  been  so  created,  as  admirably  to  harmonize  with 
this  principle  of  our  nature.  The  laws  of  matter  are  few, 
and  comparatively  simple ;  but  their  relations  are  multiplied 
even  to  infinity. 

The  law  of  gravitation  may  be  easily  explained  to  an 
ordinary  man,  or  even  to  an  intelligent  child.  But  who 
can  trace  one  half  of  its  relations  to  things  solid  and 
fluid,  things  animate  and  inanimate  ?  to  the  very  form  of  so- 
ciety itself?  to  this  system,  other  systems?  in  fine,  to  the 
mighty  masses  of  this  material  universe  ?  The  mind  delights 
to  carry  out  such  a  principle  to  its  ramified  illustrations ;  and 
hence  it  cherishes,  as  its  peculiar  treasure,  a  knowledge  of 
these  principles  themselves.  Thus  was  it,  that  the  discovery 
of  such  a  law  gave  the  name  of  Newton  to  immortality ;  re- 
duced to  harmony  the  once  apparently  discordant  movements 
of  our  planetary  system ;  taught  us  to  predict  the  events  of 
coming  ages,  and  to  explain  what  was  before  hidden,  from  the 
creation  of  the  world. 

Now  he,  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  examine,  will  perceive^ 
in  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,  a  system  of  ultimate  truths  in 
morals,  in  a  very  striking  manner  analogous  to  these  elemen- 
tary laws  of  physics.  In  themselves,  they  are  few,  simple, 
and  easily  to  be  understood.  Their  relations,  however,  as  in 
29 


338  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

the  other  case,  are  infinite.  The  moral  principle,  by  which 
you  can  easily  teach  your  little  child  to  regulate  her  conduct 
in  the  nursery,  will  furnish  matter  for  the  contemplation  of 
statesmen  and  sages.  It  is  the  only  principle  on  which  the 
decisions  of  cabinets  and  courts  can  be  founded,  and  is,  of 
itself,  sufficient  to  guide  the  diplomatist  through  all  the 
mazes  of  the  most  intricate  negotiation. 

Let  any  one  who  pleases  make  the  experiment  for  himselfl 
Let  him  take  one  of  the  rules  of  human  conduct,  which  the 
gospel  prescribes  ;  and,  having  obtained  a  clear  conception  of 
it,  just  as  it  is  revealed,  let  him  carry  it  out  in  its  unshrinking 
application  to  the  doings  and  dealings  of  men.  At  first,  if 
he  be  not  accustomed  to  generalizations  of  this  sort,  he  will 
find  much  that  will  stagger  him ;  and  he,  perhaps,  will  be 
ready  hastily  to  decide  that  the  ethics  of  the  Bible  were 
never  intended  for  practice.  But  let  him  look  a  little  longer, 
and  meditate  a  little  more  intensely,  and  expand  his  views  a 
little  more  widely,  or  become,  either  by  experience  or  by 
years,  a  little  older,  and  he  will  more  and  more  wonder  at 
the  profoundness  of  wisdom,  and  the  universality  of  applica- 
tion, of  the  principles  of  the  gospel.  With  the  most  expanded 
views  of  society,  he  can  go  nowhere,  where  the  Bible  has  not 
been  before  him.  With  the  most  penetrating  sagacity,  he 
can  make  no  discovery,  which  the  Bible  had  not  long  ago 
promulgated.  He  will  find  neither  application  which  inspira- 
tion did  not  foresee,  nor  exception  against  which  it  has  not 
guarded. 

Now,  with  these  universal  moral  principles  the  Bible  is 
filled.  At  one  time,  you  find  them  explicitly  stated;  at 
another,  merely  alluded  to  ;  here,  standing  out  in  a  precept ; 
there,  retiring  behind  a  reflection ;  now,  enwrapped  in  the 
drapery  of  a  parable ;  then,  giving  tinge  and  coloring  to  a 
graphically  drawn  character.  Its  lessons  of  wisdom  are  thus 
adapted  to  readers  of  every  age,  and  to  every  variety  of  in- 
tellectual culture.  Hence,  no  book  is  adapted  to  be  so  uni- 
versally read  as  the  Bible.  No  other  precepts  are  of  so 
extensive  application,  or  are  capable  of  guiding  under  so 
difficult  circumstances.  None  other  imbue  the  mind  with  a 
spirit  of  so  deep  forethought,  and  so  expansive  generalization. 
Hence,  there  is  no  book  which  expands  the  intellect  like  the 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  339 

Bible.  It  is  the  only  book  which  offers  a  reasonable  solution 
of  the  moral  phenomena  which  arc  transpiring  around  us. 
Hence,  there  is  the  same  sort  of  reason  to  believe  that  the 
precepts  of  the  Bible  will  be  read,  and  studied,  and  obeyed, 
as  there  is  to  believe  that  the  system  of  Newton  will  finally 
prevail,  and  eventually  banish  from  the  languages  of  man 
the  astronomical  dreams  of  Vishnu  or  of  Gaudama. 

There  are,  however,  other  exhibitions  of  taste,  which 
present  no  less  interesting  illustrations  of  the  adaptedness  of 
the  Bible  to  the  nature  of  man.  It  is  in  the  exercise  of 
this  faculty,  that  he  delights  in  the  beautiful,  glories  in  the 
vast,  and  becomes  susceptible  of  the  tenderness  of  the  pa- 
thetic. I  need  not  mention  that  these  are  among  the  most 
pleasing  of  our  intellectual  operations,  nor  that  we  eagerly 
search,  in  every  direction,  for  the  objects  of  their  appro- 
priate gratification. 

To  illustrate  the  sublimity  and  beauty  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, would,  however,  den^and  limits  far  more  extensive  than 
the  present  discussion  will  allow.  I  will,  therefore,  merely 
direct  your  attention  to  two  considerations,  which  I  select, 
not  as  the  most  striking,  but  as  somewhat  the  most  suscepti- 
ble of  brevity  of  illustration.  The  first  is  the  scriptural 
conceptions  of  character;  the  second,  the  scriptural  views 
of  futurity. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  Bible  contains  by  far  the 
oldest  memorials  of  our  race.  Much  of  it  was  written  by 
men,  who  had  scarcely  emerged  from  the  pastoral  state,  and 
who  had  acquired  but  little  of  the  knowledge,  even  then  pos- 
sessed, either  in  the  arts  or  the  sciences.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  circumstances  in  which  they  were  placed,  to  give  ele- 
vation to  character,  or  beauty,  or  sublimity,  to  their  concep- 
tions of  it.  And  yet  these  conceptions  are  most  strikingly 
diverse  from  every  thing  which  we  elsewhere  behold  in  all 
the  records  of  antiquity. 

The  heroes  of  the  pagan  classics  are,  for  the  most  part, 
either  sycophants  or  ruffians,  as  they  are  swayed,  alternately, 
by  cunning  or  by  passion.  The  objects  of  their  enterprises 
are  trifling  and  insignificant.  Their  narrative  is  valuable 
neither  for  moral  instruction,  nor  yet  for  elevated  views  of 
human  nature,  in  the  individual  or  in  society ;  but  for  bursts 


340  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

of  eloquent  feeling,  and  delineations  of  nature,  every  where 
the  same,  and  always  speaking  the  s-ame  language  into  the 
ear  of  genius. ,  The  world,  in  its  moral  progress,  has  long 
since  left  behind  it  the  ancient  conceptions  of  distinguished 
character.  Who  would  now  take  for  his  model  Achilles,  or 
Hector,  or  Ulysses,  or  Agamemnon  ?  What  mother  would 
now  relate  their  deeds  to  her  children?  How  different  a 
yiew  is  presented  by  the  holy  company  of  patriarchs ;  Abra- 
ham, that  beauteous  model  of  an  Eastern  prince  ;  Moses,  that 
wise  legislator;  David,  the  warrior  poet;  Daniel,  the  far- 
sighted  premier ;  and  Nehemiah,  the  inflexible  patriot.  The 
world  still  looks  up  with  reverence  to  these  moral  examples ; 
they  are  still  as  profitable  models  for  contemplation  as  they 
were  at  the  beginning. 

But  if  we  would  consider  this  subject  in  its  strongest  light, 
bring  together  scriptural  and  classical  characters  of  the  same 
age.  Contrast  the  history  of  Eneas  by  Virgil,  the  most  gifted 
and  the  most  humane  of  the  Roman  poets,  with  that  of  St. 
Paul,  as  found  in  the  Acts  and  the  Epistles.  Contrast  the 
faithless,  vindictive,  gross,  cowardly  and  superstitious  free- 
booter, with  the  upright,  meek,  benevolent,  sympathizing,  and 
yet  fearless  and  indomitable  apostle.  Or,  if  the  thought  be 
not  profane,  compare  the  most  splendid  conceptions,  either 
of  ancient  or  modern  times,  with  the  character  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  as  it  is  delineated  in  the  Gospels.  We  say,  then, 
that  if  we  would  gratify  our  taste  with  true  conceptions  of 
elevated  character,  if  we  would  satisfy  that  innate  longing 
within  us  after  something  better  and  more  exalted  than  our 
eyes  rest  upon  on  earth,  it  is  to  the  Bible  that  we  shall  be,  by 
the  principles  of  our  nature,  irresistibly  attracted. 


LESSON   CLIV. 

The  Dead  Mother  : — a  Dialogue. — Anonymous. 

Father.     Touch  not  thy  mother,  boy.     Thou  canst  not 

wake  her. 
Child.     Why,  father  ?     She  still  wakens  at  this  hour. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  34X 

F.     Your  mother's  dead,  my  child. 

C.     And  what  is  dead  ? 
If  she  be  dead,  why,  then,  'tis  only  sleeping ; 
For  I  am  sure  she  sleeps.     Come,  mother, — rise : — 
Her  hand  is  very  cold ! 

F.     Her  heart  is  cold. 
Her  limbs  are  bloodless ;  would  that  mine  were  so ! 

C.     If  she  would  waken,  she  would  soon  be  warm 
Why  is  she  wrapped  in  this  thin  sheet?     If  I, 
This  winter  morning,  were  not  covered  better, 
I  should  be  cold  like  her. 

F.     No,  not  like  her : 
The  fire  might  warm  you,  or  thick  clothes ;  but  her — 
Nothing  can  warm  again ! 

C.     If  I  could  wake  her. 
She  would  smile  on  me,  as  she  always  does, 
And  kiss  me. — Mother,  you  have  slept  too  long. — 
Her  face  is  pale ;  and  it  would  frighten  me, 
But  that  I  know  she  loves  me. 

F.     Come,  my  child. 

C.     Once,  when  I  sat  upon  her  lap,  I  felt 
A  beating  at  her  side  ;  and  then  she  said 
It  was  her  heart  that  beat,  and  bade  me  feel 
For  my  own  heart,  and  they  both  beat  alike. 
Only  mine  was  the  quickest.     And  I  feel 
My  own  heart  yet ;  but  hers  I  cannot  feel. 

F.     Child,  child,  you  drive  me  mad.     Come  hence,  I  say. 

C.     Nay,  father,  be  not  angry ;  let  me  stay  here 
Till  my  mother  wakens. 

F.     I  have  told  you. 
Your  mother  cannot  wake — not  in  this  world ; 
But  in  another  she  will  wake  for  us. 
When  we  have  slept  like  her,  then  we  shall  see  her. 

C.     Would  it  were  night  then. 
F.     No,  unhappy  child  ; 
Full  many  a  night  shall  pass,  ere  thou  canst  sleep 
That  last,  long  sleep.     Thy  father  soon  shall  sleep  it; 
Then  wilt  thou  be  deserted  upon  earth : 
None  will  regard  thee ;  thou  wilt  soon  forget 
That  thou  hadst  natural  ties, — an  orphan,  loqp, 
39* 


342  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Abandoned  to  the  wiles  of  wicked  men, 
And  women  still  more  wicked. 

C     Father,  father, 
Why  do  you  look  so  terribly  upon  me  1 
You  will  not  hurt  me  ? 

F.     Hurt  thee,  darling  ?  no  ! 
Has  sorrow's  violence  so  much  of  anger, 
That  it  should  fright  my  boy  ?     Come,  dearest,  come. 

C.     You  are  not  angry,  then  ? 

F.     Too  well  I  love  you. 

C.     All  you  have  said  I  cannot  now  remember, 
Nor  what  it  meant,  you  terrified  me  so  ; 
But  this,  I  know,  you  told  me, — I  must  sleep 
Before  my  mother  wakens  ;  so,  to-morrow — 
Oh !  father,  that  to-morrow  were  but  come ! 


LESSON   CLV. 

Burial  of  the  Young. — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

There  was  an  open  grave,  and  many  an  eye 
Looked  down  upon  it.     Slow  the  sable  hearse 
Moved  on,  as  if  reluctantly  it  bare 
The  young,  unwearied  form  to  that  cold  couch. 
Which  age  and  sorrow  render  sweet  to  man. 
There  seemed  a  sadness  in  the  humid  air, 
Lifting  the  long  grass  from  those  verdant  mounds 
Where  slumber  multitudes. 

There  was  a  train 
Of  young,  fair  females,  with  their  brows  of  bloom. 
And  shining  tresses.     Arm  in  arm  they  came. 
And  stood  upon  the  brink  of  that  dark  pit. 
In  pensive  beauty,  waiting  the  approach 
Of  their  companion.     She  was  wont  to  fly, 
And  meet  them,  as  the  gay  bird  meets  the  spring. 
Brushing  the  dew-drop  from  the  morning  flowers. 
And  breathing  mirth  and  gladness.     Now  she  came 
With  movements  fashioned  to  the  deep-toned  bell : — 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  343 

She  came  with  mourning  sire,  and  sorrowing  friend, 
And  tears  of  those,  who  at  her  side  were  nursed 
By  the  same  mother. 

Ah !  and  one  was  there, 
Who,  ere  the  fading  of  the  summer  rose. 
Had  hoped  to  greet  her  as  his  bride.     But  Death 
Arose  between  them.     The  pale  lover  watched 
So  close  her  journey  through  the  shadowy  vale. 
That  almost  to  his  heart  the  ice  of  death 
Entered  from  hers.     There  was  a  brilliant  flush 
Of  youth  about  her,  and  her  kindling  eye 
Poured  such  unearthly  light,  that  hope  would  hang 
Even  on  the  archer's  arrow,  while  it  dropped 
Deep  poison.     Many  a  Restless  night  she  toiled 
For  that  slight  breath  which  held  her  from  the  tomb. 
Still  wasting  like  a  snow-wreath,  which  the  sun 
Marks  for  his  own,  on  some  cool  mountain's  breast. 
Yet  spares,  and  tinges  long  with  rosy  light. 

Oft,  o'er  the  musings  of  her  silent  couch, 
Came  visions  of  that  matron  form,  which  bent 
With  nursing  tenderness,  to  soothe  and  bless 
Her  cradle  dream :  and  her  emaciate  hand 
In  trembling  prayer  she  raised,  that  He,  who  saved 
The  sainted  mother,  would  redeem  the  child. 
Was  the  orison  lost?     Whence,  then,  that  peace 
So  dove-like,  settling  o'er  a  soul  that  loved 
Earth  and  its  pleasures  ?     Whence  that  angel  smile. 
With  which  the  allurements  of  a  world  so  dear 
Were  counted  and  resigned  1  that  eloquence. 
So  fondly  urging  those,  whose  hearts  were  full 
Of  sublunary  happiness,  to  seek 
A  better  portion  ?     Whence  that  voice  of  joy, 
Which  from  the  marble  lip,  in  life's  last  strife. 
Burst  forth,  to  hail  her  everlasting  home  ?-— 
Cold  reasoners,  be  convinced.    And  when  ye  stand 
Where  that  fair  brow  and  those  unfrosted  locks 
Return  to  dust, — where  the  young  sleeper  waits 
The  resurrection  morn, — oh  !  lift  the  heart 
In  praise  to  Him  who  gave  the  victory. 


344  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON  CLVI. 

On  the  Loss  of  Professor  Fisher  in  the  Albion. — Brainard. 

The  breath  of  air,  that  stirs  the  harp's  soft  string, 

Floats  on  to  join  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm ; 
The  drops  of  dew,  exhaled  from  flowers  of  spring, 

Rise  and  assume  the  tempest's  threatening  form  ; 
The  first  mild  beam  of  morning's  glorious  sun, 

Ere  night,  is  sporting  in  the  lightning's  flash; 
And  the  smooth  stream,  that  flows  in  quiet  on, 

Moves  but  to  aid  the  overwhelming  dash 
That  wave  and  wind  can  muster,  when  the  might 
jOf  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  sky,  unite. 

So  science  whispered  in  thy  charmed  ear. 

And  radiant  learning  beckoned  thee  away. 
The  breeze  was  music  to  thee,  and  the  clear 

Beam  of  thy  morning  promised  a  bright  day. 
And  they  have  wrecked  thee ! — But  there  is  a  shore 

Where  storms  are  hushed ;  where  tempests  never  rage ; 
Where  angry  skies,  and  blackening  seas,  no  more, 

With  gusty  strength,  their  roaring  warfare  wage. 
By  thee  its  peaceful  margent  shall  be  trod — 
Thy  home  is  heaven,  and  thy  friend  is  God.     - 


LESSON    CLVII. 
The  Sunday  School — Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Group  after  group  are  gathering ; — such  as  pressed 
Once  to  their  Savior's  arms,  and  gently  laid 

Their  cherub  heads  upon  his  shielding  breast, 
Though  sterner  souls  the  fond  approach  forbade  j- 
Group  after  group  glide  on  with  noiseless  tread, 

And  round  Jehovah's  sacred  altar  meet, 

Where  holy  thoughts  in  infant  hearts  are  bred, 

And  holy  words  their  ruby  lips  repeat, 
Oft  with  a  chastened  glance,  in  modulation  sweet. 


YOUNG  LADIES'   CLASS  BOOK.  345 

Yet  some  there  are,  upon  whose  childish  brows 

Wan  Poverty  hath  done  the  work  of  Care : 
Look  up,  ye  sad  ones  ! — 'tis  your  Father's  house^ 

Beneath  whose  consecrated  dome  you  are ; 

More  gorgeous  robes  ye  see,  and  trappings  rare, 
And  watch  the  gaudier  forms  that  gaily  move. 

And  deem,  perchance,  mistaken  as  you  are, 
The  "  coat  of  many  colors  "  proves  His  love. 
Whose  sign  is  in  the  heart,  and  whose  reward  above. 

And  ye,  blessed  laborers  in  this  humble  sphere, 

To  deeds  of  saintlike  charity  inclined, 
Who,  from  your  cells  of  meditation  dear. 

Come  forth  to  gird  the  weak,  untutored  mind,  \ 

Yet  ask  no  payment,  save  one  smile  refined 
Of  grateful  love, — one  tear  of  contrite  pain, — 

Meekly  ye  forfeit  to  your  mission  kind 
The  rest  of  earthly  Sabbaths.     Be  your  gain 
A  Sabbath  without  end,  mid  yon  celestial  plain. 


LESSON  CLVm. 

BridgenortJi' s  Account  of  an  Incident  in  the  early  History  of 
America.^ — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Amongst  my  wanderings,  the  transatlantic  settlements 
have  not  escaped  me ;  more  especially  the  country  of  New 
England,  into  which  our  native  land  has  shaken  from  her 
lap,  as  a  drunkard  flings  from  him  his  treasures,  so  much 
that  is  precious  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  of  his  children. 
There,  thousands  of  our  best  and  most  godly  men — such 
whose  righteousness  might  come  between  the  Almighty  and 
his  wrath,  and  prevent  the  ruin  of  cities — are  content  to  be 

*  This  narrative  is  found  in  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak."  The  incident  occurred 
at  Hadley,  Mass., — a  village  on  the  Connecticut  river,  about  ninety  miles 
from  Boston, — September  1st,  1G75.  The  mysterious  straug-er,  who  appeared 
so  opportunely  as  a  deliverer,  was  GofTe,  the  regicide.  Whalley,  another  of 
the  judges  that  condemned  Charles  I,  was  cilso  concealed  in  the  town  of  Had 
ley  at  the  time. 


346 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


the  inhabitants  of  the  desert,  rather  encountering  the  unen- 
lightened savages,  than  stooping  to  extinguish,  under  the 
oppression  practised  in  Britain,  the  light  that  is  within  their 
own  minds. 

There  I  remained  for  a  time,  during  the  wars  which  the 
colony  maintained  with  Philip,  a  great  Indian  chief,  or  sst- 
chem,  as  he  was  called,  who  seemed  a  messenger  sent 
from  Satan  to  buffet  them.  His  cruelty  was  great ;  his  dis- 
simulation profound ;  and  the  skill  and  promptitude  with 
which  he  maintained  a  destructive  and  desultory  warfare,  in- 
flicted many  dreadful  calamities  on  the  settlement.  I  was,  by 
chance,  at  a  small  village  in  the  woods,  more  than  thirty 
miles  from  Boston,  and  in  its  situation  exceedingly  lonely, 
and  surrounded  with  thickets.  Nevertheless,  there  was  no 
idea  of  any  danger  from  the  Indians  at  that  time ;  for  men 
trusted  to  the  protection  of  a  considerable  body  of  troops, 
who  had  taken  the  field  for  protection  of  the  frontiers,  and 
who  lay,  or  were  supposed  to  lie,  betwixt  the  hamlet  and  the 
enemy's  country.  But  they  had  to  do  with  a  foe,  whom  the 
devil  himself  had  inspired  at  once  with  cunning  and  cruelty. 

It  was  on  a  Sabbath  morning,  when  we  had  assembled  to 
take  sweet  counsel  together  in  the  Lord's  house.  Our  tem- 
ple was  but  constructed  of  unhewn  logs  ;  but  when  shall  the 
chant  of  trained  hirelings.,  or  the  sounding  of  tin  and  brass  ~ 
tubes  amid  the  aisles  of  a  minster,  arise  so  sweetly  to  Heaven, 
as  did  the  psalm  in  which  we  united  at  once  our  hearts  and 
our  voices!  An  excellent  worthy,  who  now  sleeps  in  the 
Lord,  Nehemiah  Solsgrace,  long  the  companion  of  my  pil- 
grimage, had  just  begun  to  wrestle  in  prayer,  when  a  woman, 
with  disordered  looks  and  dishevelled  hair,  entered  our.  chap- 
el in  a  distracted  manner,  screaming  incessantly,  '*  The 
Indians !     The  Indians !"  .^ 

In  that  land,  no  man  dares  separate  himself  from  his /^«- 
fences ;  and  whether  in  the  city  or  in  the  field,  in  the  plough- 
ed land  or  the  forest,  men  keep  beside  them  theiiPiWeapons, 
as  did  the  Jews  at  the  rebuilding  of  the  tempBB£|||v^yire 
sallied  forth,  with  our  guns  and  pikes,  and  heari*  "the* "whoop 
of  these  incarnate  devils,  already  in  possession  of  a  part  of 
the  town,  and  exercising  their  cruelty  on  the  few  whom 
weighty  causes  or  indisposition  had  withheld  from  public  wor- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  347 

ship ;  and  it  was  remarked  as  a  judgment,  that,  upon  that 
bloody  Sabbath,  Adrian  Hanson,  a  Dutchman,  a  man  well 
enough  towards  man,  but  whose  mind  was  altogether  given 
to  worldly  gain,  was  shot  and  scalped,  as  he  was  summing 
his  weekly  gains  in  his  warehouse. 

In  fine,  there  was  much  damage  done ;  and  although  our 
arrival  and  entrance  into  combat  did  in  some  sort  put  them 
back,  yet,  being  surprised  and  confused,  and  having  no  ap- 
pointed leader  of  our  band,  the  enemy  shot  hard  at  us,  and 
had  some  advantage.  It  was  pitiful  to  hear  the  screams  of 
women  and  children,  amid  the  report  of  guns  and  the  whis- 
tling of  bullets,  mixed  with  the  ferocious  yells  of  these 
savages,  which  they  term  their  war-whoop.  Several  houses 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  village  were  soon  on  fire;  and  the 
roaring  of  the  flames,  and  crackling  of  the  great  beams  as 
they  blazed,  added  to  the  horrible  confusion;  while  the 
smoke,  which  the  wind  drove  against  us,  gave  farther  advan- 
tage to  the  enemy,  who  fought,  as  it  were,  invisible,  and 
under  cover,  whilst  we  fell  fast  by  their  unerring  fire. 

In  this  state  of  confusion,  and  while  we  were  about  to 
adopt  the  desperate  project  of  evacuating  the  village,  and, 
placing  the  women  and  children  in  the  centre,  of  attempting 
a  retreat  to  the  nearest  settlement,  it  pleased  Heaven  to  send 
us  unexpected  assistance.  A  tall  man,  of  a  reverend  ap- 
pearance, whom  no  one  of  us  had  ever  seen  before,  suddenly 
was  in  the  midst  of  us,  as  we  hastily  agitated  the  resolution 
of  retreating.  His  garments  were  of  the  skin  of  the  elk, 
and  he  wore  sword,  and  carried  gun.  I  never  saw  any  thing 
more  august  than  his  features,  overshadowed  by  locks  of  gray 
hair,  which  mingled  with  a  long  beard  of  the  same  color. 

"  Men  and  brethren,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  like  that  which 
turns  back  the  flight,  ''  why  sink  your  hearts  ?  and  why  are 
ye  thus  disquieted?  Fear  ye  that  the  God  we  serve  will 
give  you  up  to  yonder  heathen  dogs  ?  Follow  me,  and  you 
shall  see,  this  day,  that  there  is  a  captain  in  Israel!"  He 
uttered^Jt  few  brief  but  distinct  orders,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  was  accustomed  to  command ;  and  such  was  the  influ- 
ence of  his  appearance,  his  mien,  his  language,  and  his 
presence  of  mind,  that  he  was  implicitly  obeyed  by  men 
who  had  never  seen  him  until  that  moment.      We  were 


348  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

hastily  divided,  at  his  order,  into  two  bodies ;  one  of  which 
maintained  the  defence  of  the  village  with  more  courage 
than  ever,  convinced  that  the  unknown  was  sent  by  God  to 
our  rescue. 

At  his  command,  they  assumed  the  best  and  most  sheltered 
positions  for  exchanging  their  deadly  fire  with  the  Indians ; 
while,  under  cover  of  the  smoke,  the  stranger  sallied  from 
the  town,  at  the  head  of  the  other  division  of  the  New  Eng- 
land men,  and,  fetching  a  circuit,  attacked  the  red  warriors 
in  the  rear.  The  surprise,  as  is  usual  amongst  savages,  had 
complete  effect ;  for  they  doubted  not  that  they  were  assailed 
in  their  turn,  and  placed  betwixt  two  hostile  parties  by  the 
return  of  a  detachment  from  the  provincial  army.  The 
heathens  fled  in  confusion,  abandoning  the  half-won  village, 
and  leaving  behind  them  such  a  number  of  their  warriors, 
that  the  tribe  hath  never  recovered  its  loss. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  figure  of  our  venerable  leader, 
when  our  men,  and  not  they  only,  but  the  women  and  chil- 
dren of  the  village,  rescued  from  the  tomahawk  and  scalp- 
ing-knife,  stood  crowded  around  him,  yet  scarce  venturing 
to  approach  his  person,  and  more  minded,  perhaps,  to  wor- 
ship him  as  a  descended  angel,  than  to  thank  him  as  a 
fellow-mortal.  ''Not  unto  me  be  the  glory,"  he  said;  "I 
am  but  an  implement,  frail  as  yourselves,  in  the  hand  of  Him 
who  is  strong  to  deliverl  Bring  me  a  cup  of  water,  that  I 
may  allay  my  parched  throat,  ere  I  assay  the  task  of  offering 
thanks  where  they  are  most  due."  I  was  nearest  to  him  as  he 
spoke,  and  I  gave  into  his  hand  the  water  he  requested.  At 
that  moment,  we  exchanged  glances,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  recognised  a  noble  friend,  whom  I  had  long  since 
deemed  in  glory ;  but  he  gave  me  no  time  to  speak,  had 
speech  been  prudent. 

Sinking  on  his  knees,  and  signing  us  to  obey  him,  he 
poured  forth  a  strong  and  energetic  thanksgiving  for  the 
turning  back  of  the  battle,  which,  pronounced  with  a  voice 
loud  and  clear  as  a  war-trumpet,  thrilled  through  the  joints 
and  marrow  of  the  hearers.  I  have  heard  many  an  act  of 
devotion  in  my  life,  had  Heaven  vouchsafed  me  grace  to 
profit  by  them ;  but  such  a  prayer  as  this,  uttered  amidst  the 
dead  and  the  dying,  with  a  rich  tone  of  mingled  triumph  and 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  349 

adoration  was  beyond  them  all ;  it  was  like  the  song  of  the 
inspired  prophetess,  who  dwelt  beneath  the  palm-tree  between 
Ramah  and  Bethel.  He  was  silent;  and,  for  a  brief  space, 
we  remained  with  our  faces  bent  to  the  earth,  no  man  dar- 
ing to  lift  his  head.  At  length,  we  looked  up ;  but  our  deliv- 
erer was  no  longer  amongst  us ;  nor  was  he  ever  again  seen 
in  the  land  which  he  had  rescued.  " 


LESSON   CLIX. 

Trust  in  God. — Wordsworth. 

How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky ! 

And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fixed 

At  thy  command,  how  awful !    Shall  the  soul, 

Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 

Even  less  than  these  ? — Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 

Yet  I  will  praise  Thee  with  impassioned  voice : 

My  lips,  that  may  forget  Thee  in  the  crowd. 

Cannot  forget  Thee  here ;  where  Thou  hast  built, 

For  thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness 

Me  didst  thou  constitute  a  priest  of  thine, 
In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold 
Reared  for  thy  presence :  therefore  am  I  bound 
To  worsfiip,  here, — and  everywhere, — as  one 
Not  doomed  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread, 
From  childhood  up,  the  ways  of  poverty; 
From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved. 
And  from  debasement  rescued. — By  thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remained  unquenched ; 
And,  mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a  rugged  soil. 
Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowers, 
From  Paradise  transplanted.     Wintry  age 
Impends ;  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart ; 
And,  if  they  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead ! 
30 


350  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Come  labor,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  sabbath ;  come  disease  and  want, 
And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense  j 
But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee ; 
And  let  thy  favor,  to  the  end  of  life, 
Inspire  me  with  ability  to  seek 
Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things, 
Father  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  I  am  rich. 
And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content. 

And  what  are  jthings  eternal  1 — Powers  depart, 
Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change, 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat : 
But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wan6. 
Duty  exists ; — immutably  survive. 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms. 
Which  an  abstract  Intelligence  supplies ; 
Whose  kingdom  is  where  time  and  space  are  not: 
Of  other  converse,  which  mind,  soul  and  heart. 
Do,  with  united  urgency,  require. 
What  more,  that  may  not  perish  ?  Thou,  dread  Source, 
Pirime,  self-existing  Cause  and  End  of  all, 
That,  in  the  scale  of  being,  fill  their  place. 
Above  our  human  region,  or  below, 
Set  and  sustained ; — Thou, — who  didst  virap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 
Therein,  with  our  simplicity  awhile 
Might' St  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed, — 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 
Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care. 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restor'st  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense. 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule, — Thou,  Thou  alone, 
Art  everlasting. 

This  universe  shall  pass  away — a  frame 
Glorious !  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 
A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  Thee. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  35X 

Ah  !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 
No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 
By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 
Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unimprisoned  mind 
May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 
Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail. 
Still  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 
What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 
In  youth  were  mine ;  when,  stationed  on  the  top 
Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I  beheld 
The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned, 
Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep,  and  bring  the  day, 
His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him,  tow'rds  the  deep 
Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 
Attended!     Then  my  spirit  was  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude ; 
The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss. 
And  holiest  love ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light 
With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence ! 


LESSON  CLX. 
The  Patriot's  Wish. — C.  Sprague. 


_ ! Ye  dwellers  of  this  spot. 

Be  yours  a  noiseless  and  a  guiltless  lot. 
I  plead  not  that  ye  bask 
In  the  rank  beams  of  vulgar  fame  ; 

To  light  your  steps  I  ask 
A  purer  and  a  holier  flame. 
No  bloated  growth  I  supplicate  for  you. 
No  pining  multitude,  no  pampered  few  ; 
'Tis  not  alone  to  coffer  gold. 
Nor  spreading  borders  to  behold  ; 
'Tis  not  fast-swelling  crowds  to  win. 
The  refuse  ranks  of  want  and  sin — 


352  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

This  be  the  kind  decree  : 
Be  ye  by  goodness  crowned, 
Revered,  though  not  renowned ; 
Poor,  if  Heaven  will,  but  free ; 
Free  from  the  tyrants  of  the  hour, 
The  clans  of  wealth,  the  clans  of  power, 
The  coarse,  cold  scorners  of  their  God ; 
Free  from  the  taint  of  sin. 
The  leprosy  that  feeds  within. 
And  free,  in  mercy,  from  the  bigot's  rod. 

The  sceptre's  might,  the  crosier's  pride. 

Ye  do  not  fear  ; 
No  conquest  blade,  in  life-blood  dyed, 

Drops  terror  here  : 
Let  there  not  lurk  a  subtler  snare. 
For  wisdom's  footsteps  to  beware ; 
The  shackle  and  the  stake 

Our  fathers  fled ; 
Ne'er  may  their  children  wake 
A  fouler  wrath,  a  deeper  dread; 
Ne'er  may  the  craft,  that  fears  the  flesh  to  bind, 
Lock  its  hard  fetters  on  the  mind ; 
duenched  be  the  fiercer  flame 
That  kindles  with  a  name  ; 
The  pilgrim's  faith,  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
•   Let  more  than  pilgrim  kindness  seal ; 
Be  purity  of  life  the  test ; 
Leave  to  the  heart,  to  Heaven,  the  rest. 

So,  when  our  children  turn  the  page. 
To  ask  what  triumphs  marked  our  age. 
What  we  achieved  to  challenge  praise. 
Through  the  long  line  of  future  days. 
This  let  them  read,  and  hence  instruction  draw : 

"  Here  were  the  many  blessed, 

Here  found  the  virtues  rest. 
Faith  linked  with  love,  and  liberty  with  law ; 
Here  industry  to  comfort  led ; 
Her  book  of  light  here  learning  spread ; 


'  rOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.         35^ 

Here  the  warm  heart  of  youth 
Was  wooed  to  temperance  and  to  truth ; 

Here  hoary  age  was  found, 
By  wisdom  and  by  reverence  crowned. 
No  great,  but  guilty  fame 
Here  kindled  pride,  that  should  have  kindled  shame. 
These  chose  the  better,  happier  part, 
That  poured  its  sunlight  o'er  the  heart. 
That  crowned  their  homes  with  peace  and  health, 
And  weighed  Heaven's  smile  beyond  earth's  wealth  ; 
Far  from  the  thorny  paths  of  strife 
They  stood,  a  living  lesson  to  their  race, 

Rich  in  the  charities  of  life, 
Man  in  his  strength,  and  woman  in  her  grace ; 
In  purity  and  love  their  pilgrim  road  they  trod. 
And,  when  they  served  their  neighbor,  felt  they  served  their 
God." 


LESSON  CLXI. 

Summer  Noon. — Wilcox. 

A. SULTRY  noon,  not  in  the  summer's  prime, 
When  all  is  fresh  with  life,  and  youth,  and  bloom, 
But  near  its  close,  when  vegetation  stops, 
And  fruits  mature  stand  ripening  in  the  sun, 
Soothes  and  enervates,  with  its  thousand  charms. 
Its  images  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
The  melancholy  mind.     The  fields  are  still ;  " 
The  husbandman  has  gone  to  his  repast, 
And,  that  partaken,  on  the  coolest  side 
Of  his  abode,  reclines  in  sweet  repose. 
Deep  in  the  shaded  stream  the  cattle  stand. 
The  flocks  beside  the  fence,  with  heads  all  prone, 
And  panting  quick.     The  fields,  for  harvest  ripe. 
No  breezes  bend  in  smooth  and  graceful  waves, 
While  with  their  motion,  dim  and  bright  by  turns, 
30* 


354  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

The  sunshine  seems  to  move  ;  nor  e'en  a  breath 
Brushes  along  the  surface  with  a  shade 
Fleeting  and  thin,  like  that  of  flying  smoke. 
The  slender  stalks  their  heavy,  bended  heads 
Support,  as  motionless  as  oaks  their  tops. 

O'er  all  the  woods  the  topmost  leaves  are  still ; 
E'en  the  wild  poplar  leaves,  that,  pendent  hung 
By  stems  elastic,  quiver  at  a  breath, 
Rest  in  the  general  calm.     The  thistle  down, 
Seen  high  and  thick,  by  gazing  up  beside 
Some  shading  object,  in  a  silver  shower 
Plumb  down,  and  slower  than  the  slowest  snow, 
Through  all  the  sleepy  atmosphere  descends ; 
And  where  it  lights,  though  on  the  steepest  roof, 
Or  smallest  spire  of  grass,  remains  unmoved. 
White  as  a  fleece,  as  dense,  and  as  distinct 
From  the  resplendent  sky,  a  single  cloud 
On  the  soft  bosom  of  the  air  becalmed, 
Drops  a  lone  shadow,  as  distinct  and  still. 
On  the  bare  plain,  or  sunny  mountain's  side ; 
Or  in  the  polished  mirror  of  the  lake, 
In  which  the  deep  reflected  sky  appears 
A  calm,  sublime  immensity  below. 


LESSON  CLXII. 

Summer  Wind, — Bryant. 

It  is  a  sultry  day  ;  the  sun  has  drank 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.     All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee. 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.     The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors  :  the  tall  maize 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  355 

Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves ;  the  clover  drops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far,  in  the  fierce  sunshine,  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.     Bright  clouds. 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  white  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether, — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away. 

For  rhe,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf. 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 
Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.     Why  so  slow. 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
O  come,  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?     See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge. 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now. 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.     He  comes  ! 
Lo,  where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves ! 
The  deep,  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion. 

He  is  come. 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs. 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.     All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath  ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook. 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other  ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet ;  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves,  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


356  YOVHiG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

LESSON   CLXIIL 
Fashionable  Follies. — Flint's  Western  Review. 

There  are  in  the  United  States  one  hundred  thousand 
young  ladies,  as  Sir  Ralph  Abercrombie  said  of  those  of 
Scotland,  "  the  prettiest  lassies  in  a'  the  ivorld,"  who  know 
neither  to  toil  nor  spin)^;Who  are  yet  clothed  like  the  lilies  of 
the  valley, — who  thrum  the  piano,  and,  a  few  of  the  more 
dainty,  the  harp, — who  walk,  as  the  Bible  says,  softly, — who 
have  read  romances,  and  some  of  them  seen  the  interior  of 
theatres, — who  have  been  admired  at  the  examination  of  their 
high  school, — who  have  wrought  algebraic  solutions  on  the 
black  board, — who  are,  in  short,  the  very  roses  of  the  gar- 
den, the  attar  of  life, — who  yet, — horresco  referens, — can 
never  expect  to  be  married,  or,  if  married,  to  live  without 
— shall  I  speak,  or  forbear  1 — putting  their  own  lily  hands 
to  domestic  drudgery. 

We  go  into  the  interior  villages  of  our  recent  wooden 
country.  The  fair  one  sits  down  to  clink  the  wires  of  the 
piano.  We  see  the  fingers  displayed  on  the  keys,  which,  we 
are  sure,  never  prepared  a  dinner,  nor  made  a  garment 
for  her  robustious  brothers.  We  traverse  the  streets  of  our 
own  city,  and  the  wires  of  the  piano  are  thrummed  in  our 
ears  from  every  considerable  house.  In  cities  and  villages, 
from  one  extremity  of  the  Union  to  the  other,  wherever  there 
is  a  good  house,  and  the  doors  and  windows  betoken  the 
presence  of  the  mild  months,  the  ringing  of  the  piano  wires 
is  almost  as  universal  a  sound,  as  the  domestic  hum  of  life 
within. 

We  need  not  enter  in  person.  Imagination  sees  the  fair 
one,  erect  on  her  music  stool,  laced,  and  pinioned,  and  re- 
duced to  a  questionable  class  of  entomology,  dinging  at  the 
wires,  as  though  she  could,  in  some  way,  hammer  out  of 
them  music,  amusement  and  a  husband.  Look  at  her  taper 
and  cream-colored  fingers.  Is  she  a  utilitarian  ?  Ask  the 
fair  one,  when  she  has  beaten  all  the  music  out  of  the  keys, 
"  Pretty  fair  one,  canst  talk  to  thy  old  and  sick  father,  so  as 
to  beguile  him  out  of  the  headache  and  rheumatism  ?     Canst 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  357 

write  a  good  and  straight  forward  letter  of  business  ?  Thou 
art  a  chemist,  I  remember,  at  the  examination ;  canst  com- 
pound, prepare,  and  afterwards  boil,  or  bake,  a  good  pudding  ? 
Canst  make  one  of  the  hundred  subordinate  ornaments  of 
thy  fair  person?  In  short,  tell  us  thy  use  in  existence,  ex- 
cept to  be  contemplated,  as  a  pretty  picture  1  And  how  long 
will  any  one  be  amused  with  the  view  of  a  picture,  after 
having  surveyed  it  a  dozen  times,  unless  it  have  a  mind,  a 
heart,  and,  we  may  emphatically  add,  the  perennial  value  of 
utility  1" 

It  is  a  sad  and  lamentable  truth,  after  all  the  incessant 
din  we  have  heard  of  the  march  of  mind,  and  the  intermi- 
nable theories,  inculcations  and  eulogies  of  education,  that 
the  present  is  an  age  of  unbounded  desire  of  display  and  no- 
toriety, of  exhaustless  and  unquenchably  burning  ambition  ; 
and  not  an  age  of  calm,  contented,  ripe  and  useful  knowl- 
edge, for  the  sacred  privacy  of  the  parlor.  Display,  notoriety, 
surface  and  splendor, — these  are  the  first  aims  of  the  mothers ; 
and  can  we  expect  that  the  daughters  will  drink  into  a  better 
spirit  1  To  play,  sing,  dress,  glide  down  the  dance,  and  get 
a  husband,  is  the  lesson ;  not  to  be  qualified  to  render  his 
home  quiet,  well-ordered  and  happy. 

It  is  notorious,  that  there  will  soon  be  no  intermediate 
class  between  those  who  toil  and  spin,  and  those  whose 
claim  to  be  ladies  is  founded  on  their  being  incapable  of  any 
value  of  utility.  At  present,  we  know  of  none,  except  the 
little  army  of  martyrs,  yclept  school-mistresses,  and  the  still 
smaller  corps  of  editorial  and  active  blue-stockings.  If  it 
should  be  my  lot  to  transmigrate  back  to  earth,  in  the  form 
of  a  young  man,  my  first  homages  in  search  of  a  wife  would 
be  paid  to  the  thoughtful  and  pale-faced  fair  one,  surrounded 
by  her  little,  noisy,  refractory  subjects,  drilling  her  soul  to 
patience,  and  learning  to  drink  of  the  cup  of  earthly  disci- 
pline, and,  more  impressively  than  by  a  thousand  sermons, 
tasting  the  bitterness  of  our  probationary  course,  in  teaching 
the  young  idea  how  to  shoot.  Except,  as  aforesaid,  school- 
mistresses and  blues,  we  believe,  that  all  other  damsels, 
clearly  within  the  purview  of  the  term  ladi/,  estimate  the 
clearness  of  their  title  precisely  in  the  ratio  of  their  useless- 
ness. 


358  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Allow  a  young  lady  to  have  any  hand  in  the  adjustment  of 
all  the  components  of  her  dress,  each  of  which  has  a  contour, 
which  only  the  fleeting  fashion  of  the  moment  can  settle ; 
allow  her  time  to  receive  morning  visitants,  and  prepare  for 
afternoon  appointments  and  evening  parties,  and  what  time 
has  the  dear  one  to  spare,  to  be  useful  and  do  good?  To 
labor !  Heaven  forefend  the  use  of  the  horrid  term  !  The 
simple  state  of  the  case  is  this.  There  is  somewhere,  in  all 
this,  an  enormous  miscalculation,  an  infinite  mischief — an 
evil,  as  we  shall  attempt  to  show,  not  of  transitory  or  minor 
importance,  but  fraught  with  misery  and  ruin,  not  only  to  the 
fair  ones  themselves,  but  to  society  and  the  age. 

We  have  not,  we  admit,  the  elements  on  which  to  base 
the  calculation ;  but  we  may  assume,  as  we  have,  that  there 
are  in  the  United  States  a  hundred  thousand  young  ladies 
brought  up  to  do  nothing,  except  dress,  and  pursue  amuse- 
ment. Another  hundred  thousand  learn  music,  dancing, 
and  what  are  called  the  fashionable  accomplishments.  It 
has  been  said  that  "  revolutions  never  move  backwards."  It 
is  equally  true  of  emulation  of  the  fashion.  The  few  opu- 
lent, who  can  afford  to  be  good  for  nothing,  precede. 
Another  class  presses  as  closely  as  they  can  upon  their  steps ; 
and  the  contagious  mischief  spreads  downward,  till  the  fond 
father,  who  lays  every  thing  under  contribution,  to  furnish 
the  means  for  purchasing  a  piano,  and  hiring  a  music-master 
for  his  daughters,  instead  of  being  served,  when  he  comes 
in  from  the  plough,  by  the  ruined  favorites  for  whom  he  has 
sacrificed  so  much,  finds  that  a  servant  must  be  hired  for 
the  young  ladies. 

Here  is  not  the  end  of  the  mischief.  Every  one  knows 
that  mothers  and  daughters  give  the  tone,  and  laws — more 
unalterable  than  those  of  the  Medes  and  Persians — to  so- 
ciety. Here  is  the  root  of  the  matter,  the  spring  of  bitter 
waters.  Here  is  the  origin  of  the  complaint  of  hard  times, 
bankruptcies,  greediness,  avarice,  and  the  horse-leech  cry, 
"  Give,  give  !"  Here  is  the  reason  why  every  man  lives  up 
to  his  income,  and  so  many  beyond  it.  Here  is  the  reason 
why  the  young  trader,  starting  on  credit,  and  calling  himself 
a  merchant,  hires  and  furnishes  such  a  house  as  if  he  really 
was  one,  fails,  and  gives  to  his  creditors  a  beggarly  account 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  350 

of  empty  boxes  and  misapplied  sales.  He  has  married  a 
wife  whose  janity  and  extravagance  are  fathomless,  and  his 
ruin  is  explained.  Hence  the  general  and  prevalent  evil  of 
the  present  times,  extravagance — conscious  shame  of  the 
thought  of  being  industrious  and  useful.  Hence  the  con- 
cealment, by  so  many  thousand  young  ladies,  (who  have  not 
yet  been  touched  by  the  extreme  of  modern  degeneracy,  and 
who  still  occasionally  apply  their  hands  to  domestic  employ- 
ment,) of  these,  their  good  deeds,  with  as  much  care  as  if 
they  were  crimes.  Every  body  is  ashamed  not  to  be  expen- 
sive and  fashionable ;  and  every  one  seems  equally  ashamed 
of  honest  industry.     *     *     #     * 

I  cannot  conceive,  that  mere  idlers,  male  or  female,  can 
have  respect  enough  for  themselves  to  be  comfortable.  I 
cannot  imagine,  that  they  should  not  carry  about  with  them 
such  a  consciousness  of  being  a  blank  in  existence,  as  would 
be  written  on  their  forehead,  in  the  shrinking  humiliation  of 
perceiving,  that  the  public  eye  had  weighed  them  in  the 
balance,  and  found  them  wanting.  Novels  and  romances 
may  say  this  or  that  about  their  ethereal  beauties,  their  fine 
ladies  tricked  out  to  slaughter  my  lord  A.,  and  play  Cupid's 
archery  upon  dandy  B.,  and  despatch  Amarylis  C.  to  his 
sonnets.  I  have  no  conception  of  a  beautiful  woman,  or  a 
fine  man,  in  whose  eye,  in  whose  port,  in  whose  whole  ex- 
pression, this  sentiment  does  not  stand  imbodied : — "  I  am 
called  by  my  Creator  to  duties ;  I  have  employment  on  the 
earth ;  my  sterner,  but  more  enduring  pleasures  are  in  dis- 
charging my  duties." 

Compare  the  sedate  expression  of  this  sentiment  in  the 
countenance  of  man  or  woman,  when  it  is  known  to 
stand,  as  the  index  of  character  and  the  fact,  with  the 
superficial  gaudiness  of  a  simple,  good  for  nothing  belle, 
who  disdains  usefulness  and  employment,  whose  empire 
is  a  ball-room,  and  whose  subjects  dandies,  as  silly  and  as 
useless  as  herself.  Who,  of  the  two,  has  most  attractions  for 
a  ^an  of  sense  1  The  one  a  help-mate,  a  fortune  in  herself, 
who  can  aid  to  procure  one,  if  the  husband  has  it  not ;  who 
can  soothe  him  under  the  loss  of  it,  and,  what  is  more,  aid 
him  to  regain  it ;  and  the  other  a  painted  butterfly,  for  orna^ 
ment  only  during  the  vernal  and  sunny  months  of  prosperity ; 


360  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

and  then  not  becoming  a  chrysalis,  an  inert  moth  in  adversity, 
but  a  croaking,  repining,  ill-tempered  termagant,  who  can 
only  recur  to  the  days  of  her  short-lived  triumph,  to  imbitter 
the  misery,  and  poverty,  and  hopelessness  of  a  husband,  who, 
like  herself,  knows  not  to  dig,  and  is  ashamed  to  beg. 

We  are  obliged  to  avail  of  severe  language  in  application 
to  a  deep-rooted  malady.  We  want  words  of  power.  We 
need  energetic  and  stern  applications.  No  country  ever 
verged  more  rapidly  towards  extravagance  and  expense.  In 
a  young  republic,  like  ours,  it  is  ominous  of  any  thing  but 
good.  Men  of  thought,  and  virtue,  and  example,  are  called 
upon  to  look  to  this  evil.  Ye  patrician  families,  that  croak, 
and  complain,  and  forebode  the  downfall  of  the  republic,  here 
is  the  origin  of  your  evils.  Instead  of  training  your  son  to 
waste  his  time,  as  an  idle  young  gentleman  at  large, — instead 
of  inculcating  on  your  daughter,  that  the  incessant  tinkling 
of  a  harpsichord,  or  a  scornful  and  lady-like  toss  of  the  head, 
or  dexterity  in  waltzing,  are  the  chief  requisites  to  make  her 
way  in  life, — if  you  can  find  po  better  employment  for  them, 
teach  him  the  use  of  the  grubbing  hoe,  and  her  to  make  up 
garments  for  your  servants.  Train  your  son  and  daughter' 
to  an  employment,  to  frugality,  to  hold  the  high  front,  and  to 
walk  the  fearless  step  of  independence,  and  sufficiency  to 
themselves  in  any  fortunes,  any  country,  or  any  state  of 
things.  By  arts  like  these,  the  early  Romans  thrived. 
When  your  children  have  these  possessions,  you  may  go 
down  to  the  grave  in  peace,  as  regards  their  temporal 
fortunes. 


LESSON   CLXIV. 

LochieVs  Warning. — Campbell. 

Wizard.     LocHiEL !  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  fight : 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  361 

T^Jiey  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown  ; 
Wo,  wo  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin !  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  ;  no  rider  is  there ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin !  to  death  and  captivity  led ! 
Oh,  weep !  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  !  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

Lochiel    Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer ! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Wizard.     Ha !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn. 
Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth. 
From  his  home,  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the  north? 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foeman  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  : 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed,  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?     Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firi?iament  cast? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel,  the  peerless  in  might. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn  ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood. 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

Lochiel.    False  wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshalled  my  claH  . 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
A^nd,  like  reapers,  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
31      ' 


3^2         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK 

Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock  I 
But  wo  to  his  kindred,  and  wo  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud  ; 
All  pi  aided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array — 

Wizard.     Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day  ! 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal : 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore. 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 
Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 
Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 
Now,  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my  sight : 
Rise  !  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
'Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors ; 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?     Where  ? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 
Ah  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier  ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling.     Oh  !  mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs. 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 
Accursed  be  the  fagots,  that  blaze  at   his  feet. 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale — 

Lochiel.     Down,  soothless  insulter  !  I  trust  not  the  tale : 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their  gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall,  victor,  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foQ. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  363 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 


Joan  of  Arc,  in  Rlieims. — Mrs.  Hemans. 

That  was  a  joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  rolled 
Forth  from  her  thronged  cathedral ;  while  around, 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chained  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  though  elate 
With  victory,  listened  at  their  temple's  gate. 
And  what  was  done  within  1 — Within,  the  light 

Through  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows  flowing, 
Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight, — 

The  chivalry  of  France,  their  proud  heads  bowing 
In  martial  vassalage ! — while,  midst  that  ring, 
And  shadowed  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.     For  this,  the  hymn 

Swelled  out  like  rushing  waters, and  the  day, 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath,  grew  dim. 

As  through  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  the  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles. 

But  who,  alone 
And  unapproached,  beside  the  altar-stone, 
With  the  white  banner,  forth,  like  sunshine,  streammg. 
And  the  gold  helm,  through  clouds  of  fragrance  gleaming. 
Silent  and  radiant  stood  ? — The  helm  was  raised. 
And  the  fair  face  revealed,  that  upward  gazed. 

Intensely  worshipping, — a  still,  clear  face, 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn  !     Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek. 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace 
On  its  pure  paleness ;  while,  enthroned  above, 
The  pictured  Virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love. 
Seemed  bending  o'er  her  votaress.     That  slight  form  I 
Was  that  the  leader  through  the  battle  storm  ? 


364  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Had  the  soft  light,  in  that  adoring  eye, 

Guided  the  warrior  where  the  swords  flashed  high  1 

'Twas  so,  even  so ! — and  thou,  the  shepherd's  child, 

Joanne,  the  lowly  dreamer  of  the  wild ! 

Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour. 

Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power 

Stood  forth  as  thou,  beside  the  shrine,  didst  stand — 

Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  land  ! 

And,  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 

Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 

Ransomed  for  France  by  thee  ! 

The  rites  are  done. 
Now  let  the  dome  with  trumpet  notes  be  shaken, 
And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tombs  awaken. 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  Heaven's  rejoicing  sun 
May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue  skies, 

Daughter  of  victory  !     A  triumphant  strain, 
A  proud,  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies. 

Gushed  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane, 
And  forth  she  came.     Then  rose  a  nation's  sound. 
Oh  !  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound, 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer, 
Man  gives  to  Glory  on  her  high  career  ! 
Is  there  indeed  such  power  ? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flows  forth !     The  shouts,  that  filled 
The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  stilled 
One  moment ;  and,  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone. 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown. 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart. — "  Joanne  !" — Who  spoke 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  Jier  childhood  grew 
Under  one  roof? — "  Joanne  !" — That  murmur  broke 

With  sounds  of  weeping  forth  ! — She  turned — she  knew 
Beside  her,  marked  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd  ;  and  the  youth,  whose  joy 
From  his  dark  eye  flashed  proudly  ;  and  the  boy. 
The  youngest  born,  that  ever  loved  her  best : — 
"Father !  and  ye,  my  brothers  !"     On  the  breast 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  3^ 

Of  that  gray  sire  she  sank,  and  swiftly  back, 

Even  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track 

Her  free  thoughts  flowed.     She  saw  the  pomp  no  more-~ 

The  plumes,  the  banners :  to  her  cabin-door, 

And  to  the  fairy's  fountain  in  the  glade, 

Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  played, 

And  to  her  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 

Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose. 

Her  spirit  turned.     The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time,  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beech-leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart — a  music  heard  and  felt. 
Winning  her  back  to  nature.     She  unbound 

The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head. 
And,  with  her  bright  locks  bowed  to  sweep  the  ground. 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said, — 
"  Bless  me,  my  father,  bless  me  !  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen-tree. 
Let  me  return !" 

Oh  !  never  did  thine  eye 
Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again,  Joanne  !    Too  much  of  fame 
Had  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant-name  ; 
And,  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price, — 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  home,  with  all  its  loves, — doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 


LESSON    CLXVI. 

RaphaeVs  Account  of  the  Creation. — Milton. 


Heaven  opened  wide 


Her  ever-during  gates — harmonious  sound — 
On  golden  hinges  moving,  to  let  forth 
The  King  of  Glory,  in  his  powerful  Word 
And  Spirit,  coming  to  create  new  worlds. 
31  * 


QQQ  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

On  heavenly  ground  they  stood  ;  and,  from  the  shore,j 
They  viewed  the  vast,  immeasurable  abyss, 
Outrageous  as  a  sea,  dark,  wasteful,  wild, 
Up  from  the  bottom  turned  by  furious  winds 
And  surging  waves,  as  mountains  to  assault 
Heaven's  height,  and  with  the  centre  mix  the  pole. 

"  Silence,  ye  troubled  waves,  and  thou  deep,  peace !" 
Said  then  the  omnific  Word ;  "  your  discord  cndl" 
Nor  stayed,  but,  on  the  wings  of  cherubim 
Uplifted,  in  paternal  glory  rode 
Far  into  Chaos,  and  the  world  unborn ;  » 

For  Chaos  heard  his  voice :  him  all  his  train 
Followed  in  bright  procession,  to  behold 
Creation,  and  the  wonders  of  his  might. 
Then  stayed  the  fervid  wheels,  and  in  his  hand 
He  took  the  golden  compasses,  prepared 
In  God's  eternal  store,  to  circumscribe 
This  universe,  and  all  created  things : 
One  foot  he  centred,  and  the  other  turned 
Round  through  the  vast  profundity  obscure. 
And  said,  "  Thus  far  extend,  thus  far  thy  bounds, 
This  be  thy  just  circumference,  O  world !" 
Thus  God  the  heaven  created,  thus  the  earth. 
Matter  unformed  and  void ;  darkness  profound 
Covered  the  abyss  ;  but  on  the  watery  calm 
His  brooding  wings  the  Spirit  of  God  outspread. 
And  vital  virtue  infused,  and  vital  warmth 
Throughout  the  fluid  mass  : • 


then  founded,  then  conglobed 

Like  things  to  like,  the  rest  to  several  place 
Disparted,  and  between  spun  out  the  air  ; 
And  earth,  self-balanced,  on  her  centre  hung. 

"  Let  there  be  light,"  said  God ;  and  forthwith  light 
Ethereal,  first  of  things,  quintessence  pure. 
Sprung  from  the  deep,  and,  from  her  native  east, 
To  journey  through  the  airy  gloom  began. 
Sphered  in  a  radiant  cloud ;  for  yet  the  sun 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  367 

Was  not :  she  in  a  cloudy  tabernacle 

Sojourned  the  while.     God  saw  the  light  was  good 

And  light  from  darkness,  by  the  hemisphere, 

Divided  :  light  the  day,  and  darkness  night, 

He  named.     Thus  was  the  first  day  even  and  morn : 

Nor  passed  uncelebrated,  nor  unsung 

By  the  celestial  choirs,  when  orient  light 

Exhaling  first  from  darkness  they  beheld ; 

Birthday  of  heaven  and  earth  :  with  joy  and  shout 

The  hollow  universal  orb  they  filled. 

And  touched  their  golden  harps,  and,  hymning,  praised 

God  and  his  works ;  Creator  him  they  sung. 

Both  when  first  evening  was,  and  when  first  morn. 


LESSON  CLXVII. 
Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church-yard. — Gtray. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  ; 

The  lowing  herds  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea ; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

NoW  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
Ajid  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


368  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow,  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await,  alike,  the  inevitable  hour  ; — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle,  and  fretted  vault. 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.      • 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart,  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.         ; 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll  j 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined ; — 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame ; 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray : 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life, 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet,  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial,  still  erected  nigh. 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


t 


%. 


370  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelled  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey. 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, — 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, — 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires : 
Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries. 

Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate. 

If,  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led. 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate 

Haply,  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn. 

Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high. 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling,  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill. 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree : 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he : 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  371 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw  him  borne. 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay, 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

^  2%e  Epitaph. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  : 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : — 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a  tear ; 

He  gained  from  Heaven — 'twas  all  he  wished — a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, — 

(There  they,  alike,  in  trembling  hope,  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


LESSON  CLXVin. 

Dialogue : — Gesler  and  Tell — Knowles. 

Gesler.     Why  speak' st  thou  not? 

Tell     For  wonder. 

Ges.     Wonder  ? 

Tell     Yes. 
That  thou  shouldst  seem  a  man. 

Ges.     What  should  I  seem  ? 

Tell     A  mooster ! 

Ges.     Ha !     Beware — Think  on  thy  chains. 

Tell.    Though  they  were  doubled,  and  did  weigh  me 
down. 
Prostrate  to  earth,  methinks  I  could  rise  up 
Erect,  with  nothing  but  the  honest  pride 


372  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Of  telling  thee,  usurper,  to  the  teeth, 
Thou  art  a  monster  !     Think  upon  my  chains ! 
Show  me  the  link  of  them,  which,  could  it  speak, 
Would  give  its  evidence  against  my  word. 
Think  on  my  chains !  Think  on  my  chains ! 
How  came  they  on  me  ? 

Ges.     Barest  thou  question  me  1 

Tell.     Barest  thou  not  answer  1 

Ges.     Bo  I  hear  1 

Tell.     Thou  dost. 

Ges.     Beware  my  vengeance. 

Tell.     Can  it  more  than  kill  ? 

Ges.     Enough — it  can  do  that. 

Tell.     No — not  enough  : 
It  cannot  take  away  the  grace  of  life, 
Its  comeliness  of  look  that  virtue  gives, 
Its  port  erect  with  consciousness  of  truth, 
Its  rich  attire  of  honorable  deeds. 
Its  fair  report,  that's  rife  on  good  men's  tongues  i 
It  cannot  lay  its  hands  on  these,  no  more 
Than  it  can  pluck  his  brightness  from  the  sun, 
Or,  with  polluted  finger,  tarnish  it. 

Ges.     But  it  can  make  thee  writhe 

Tell.     It  may. 

Ges.     And  groan. 

Tell.     It  may ;  and  I  may  cry, 
Go  on,  though  it  should  make  me  groan  again. 

Ges.     Whence  comest  thou  1 

Tell.     From  the  mountains.     Wouldst  thou  learn 
What  news  from  them  1 

Ges.     Canst  tell  me  any  ? 

Tell     Ay : 
They  watch  no  more  the  avalanche. 

Ges.     Why  so? 

Tell.     Because  they  look  for  thee.     The  hurricane 
Comes  unawares  upon  them;  from  its  bed 
The  torrent  breaks,  and  finds  them  in  its  track. 

Ges.     What  do  they  then  1 

Tell.     Thank  Heaven  it  is  not  thou ! 
Thou  hast  perverted  nature  in  them.     The  earth 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.         37^ 

Presents  her  fruits  to  them,  and  is  not  thanked ; 

The  harvest  sun  is  constant,  and  they  scarce 

Return  his  smile ;  their  flocks  and  herds  increase, 

And  they  look  on  as  men  who  count  a  loss ; 

They  hear  of  thriving  children  born  to  them. 

And  never  shake  the  teller  by  the  hand  ; 

While  those  they  have,  they  see  grow  up  and  flourish. 

And  think  as  little  of  caressing  them. 

As  they  were  things  a  deadly  plague  had  smit. 

There's  not  a  blessing  Heaven  vouchsafes  them,  but 

The  thought  of  thee  doth  wither  to  a  curse. 

As  something  they  must  lose,  and  richer  were 

To  lack. 

Ges.     That's  right !  I'd  have  them  like  their  hills, 
That  never  smile,  though  wanton  summer  tempt 
Them  e'er  so  much. 

Tell.     But  they  do  sometimes  smile. 

Ges.     Ay  1 — when  is  that  ? 

Tell.     When  they  do  talk  of  vengeance. 

Ges.     Vengeance  ?     Dare 
They  talk  of  that? 

Tell.     Ay,  and  expect  it,  too. 

Ges.     From  whence  ? 

Tell.    From  Heaven ! 

Ges.     From  Heaven  ? 

Tell.     And  the  true  hands 
Are  lifted  up  to  it,  on  every  hill. 
For  justice  on  thee. 


LESSON  CLXIX. 

Chrandeur  of  Astronomical  Science. — N.  A.  Review. 

Astronomy  is  certainly  the  boldest  and  most  comprehen- 
sive of  all  our  speculations.  It  is  the  science  of  the  material 
universe  considered  as  a  whole.  Though  employed  upon 
objects  apparently  withdrawn  from  the  sphere  of  human 
action  and  pursuit,  it  teaches  us,  nevertheless,  that  thew 
32 


374  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

objects  materially  affect,  nay,  constitute  our  physical  condition. 
The  wide-spreading  firmament,  while  it  lifts  itself  above  all 
mortal  things,  exhibits  to  us  that  luminary,  which  is  the  light, 
and  life,  and  glory  of  our  world ;  and,  when  this  retires  from 
our  view,  it  is  lighted  up  with  a  thousand  lesser  fires,  that  never 
cease  to  burn,  that  never  fail  to  take  their  accustomed  places, 
and  never  rest  from  their  slow,  solemn,  and  noiseless  march. 

Among  the  objects  more  immediately  about  us,  all  is  vicis- 
situde and  change.  It  is  the  destiny  of  terrestrial  things  to 
pwpetuate  themselves  by  succession.  Plants  arise  out  of 
the  earth,  flourish  awhile,  and  decay,  and  their  place  is  filled 
by  others.  Animals,  also,  have  their  periods  of  growth  and 
decline.  Even  man  is  not  exempt  from  the  general  law. 
His  exquisite  frame,  with  all  its  fine  organs,  is  soon  reduced 
to  its  original  elements,  to  be  moulded  again  into  new  and 
humbler  forms.  Nations  are,  like  individuals,  privileged  only 
with  a  more  protracted  existence.  The  firm  earth  itself,  the 
theatre  of  all  this  change,  partakes,  in  a  degree,  of  the  com- 
mon lot  of  its  inhabitants;  and  the  sea  once  heaved  its 
waves,  where  now  rolls  a  tide  of  wealth  and  population. 

Situated,  as  we  are,  in  this  fleeting,  fluctuating  state,  it  is 
consoling  to  be  able  to  dwell  upon  an  enduring  scene ;  to 
contemplate  laws  that  are  immutable,  an  order  that  has  never 
been  interrupted ;  to  fix,  not  the  thoughts  only,  but  the  eye, 
upon  objects  that,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  ages,  and  the 
fall  of  so  many  states,  cities,  human  institutions,  and  monu- 
ments of  art,  continue  to  occupy  the  same  places,  to  move 
with  the  same  regularity,  and  to  shine  with  the  same  pure, 
fresh,  undiminished  lustre. 

As  the  heavens  are  the  most  striking  spectacle,  that  pre- 
sents itself  to  our  contemplation,  so  there  is  no  subject  of 
philosophical  inquiry,  which  has  more  engaged  the  attention' 
of  mankind.  The  history  of  astronomy  carries  us  back  to 
the  earliest  times,  and  introduces  us  to  the  languages  and 
customs,  the  religion  and  poetry,  the  sciences  and  arts,  the 
tastes,  talents  and  peculiar  genius,  of  the  different  nations 
of  the  earth.  The  ancient  Atlantides  and  Ethiopians,  the 
Egyptian  priests,  the  magi  of  Persia,  the  shepherds  of  Chal- 
dea,  the  Bramins  of  India,  the  mandarins  of  China,  the 
f  hcenician  navigators,  the  philosophers  of  Greece,  and  the 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  375 

wandering  Arabs,  have  contributed  to  the  general  mass  of 
knowledge  and  speculation  upon  this  subject ;  have  added  more 
or  less  to  this  vast  structure,  the  common  monument  of  the 
industry,  invention,  and  intellectual  resources  of  mankind. 

They,  whose  imaginations  have  wandered  up  to  the  sphere 
of  the  stars,  like  those  who  have  visited  unfrequented  regions 
on  th«  earth,  have  left  there,  as  in  a  sort  of  album,  some  me- 
morial of  themselves,  and  of  the  times  in  which  they  lived. 
The  constellations  are  a  faithful  picture  of  the  ruder  stages 
of  civilization.  They  ascend  to  times  of  which  no  other 
record  exists,  and  are  destined  to  remain  when  all  others  are 
lost.  Fragments  of  history,  curious  dates  and  documents 
relating  to  chronology,  geography  and  languages,  are  here 
preserved  in  imperishable  characters.  The  adventures  of 
the  gods  and  the  inventions  of  men,  the  exploits  of  heroes 
and  the  fancies  of  poets,  are  here  perpetually  celebrated  be- 
fore all  nations.  The  seven  stars  and  Orion  present  them- 
selves to  us,  as  they  appeared  to  Amos  and  Homer,  Here  are 
consecrated  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  and  the  ship  of  the  Argo- 
nauts, and,  in  the  same  firmament,  the  mariner's  compass 
and  the  telescope  of  Herschel. 

We  remark,  farther,  that  astronomy  is  the  most  improved 
of  all  the  branches  of  human  knowledge,  and  that  which 
does  the  greatest  credit  to  the  human  understanding.  We 
have  in  this  obtained  the  object  of  our  researches.  We  have 
solved  the  great  problem  proposed  to  us  in  the  celestial  mo- 
tions; and  our  solution  is  as  simple  and  as  grand  as  the 
spectacle  itself,  and  is  in  every  respect  worthy  of  so  exalted 
a  subject.  It  is  not  the  astron^er  only,  who  is  thus  satisfied ; 
but  the  proof  is  of  a  nature  to  carry  conviction  to  the  most 
illiterate  and  skeptical.  Our  knowledge,  extending  to  the 
principles  and  laws  which  the  Author  of  nature  has  chosen 
to  impress  upon  his  work,  comprehends  the  future ;  it  resem- 
bles that  which  has  been  regarded  as  the  exclusive  attribute 
of  supreme  intelligence.  We  are  thus  enabled,  not  only  to 
explain  those  unusual  appearances  in  the  heavens,  which 
were  formerly  the  occasion  of  such  unworthy  fears,  but  to 
forewarn  men  of  their  occurrence ;  and,  by  predicting  the 
time,  place  and  circumstances  of  the  phenomenon,  to  disarm 
it  of  its  terror. 


376  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

There  is,  however,  nothing,  perhaps,  so  surprising  in  this 
science,  as  that  it  makes  us  acquainted  with  methods,  by 
which  we  can  survey  those  bright  fields  on  which  it  is  em- 
ployed, and  apply  our  own  familiar  measures  to  the  paths 
which  are  there  traced,  and  to  the  bodies  that  trace  them  ; 
that  we  can  estimate  the  form,  and  dimensions,  and  inequali- 
ties, of  objects  so  immense,  and  so  far  removed  from  the 
little  scene  of  our  labors. 

What  would  be  the  astonishment  of  an  inhabitant  of  one 
of  those  bodies,  of  Jupiter,  for  instance,  to  find  that,  by 
means  of  instruments  of  a  few  feet  in  length,  and  certain 
figures  and  characters,  still  smaller,  all  of  our  own  invention, 
we  had  succeeded  in  determining  the  magnitude  and  weight 
of  this  great  planet,  the  length  of  its  days  and  nights,  and  the 
variety  of  its  seasons, — that  we  had  watched  the  motions  of 
its  moons,  calculated  their  eclipses,  and  applied  them  to  im- 
portant domestic  purposes  1  What  would  be  our  astonish- 
ment to  learn  that  an  insect,  one  of  those,  for  instance, 
which  serve  sometimes  to  illuminate  the  waters  of  the  ocean, 
though  confined  by  the  exercise  of  its  proper  organs,  and 
locomotive  powers,  to  the  sphere  of  a  few  inches,  had,  by 
artificial  aids  of  its  own  contriving,  been  able  to  extend  its 
sphere  of  observation  to  the  huge  monsters  that  move  about 
it ;  that  it  had  even  attempted,  not  altogether  without  success, 
to  fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss,  in  which  it  occupies  so 
insignificant  a  place,  and  to  number  the  beings  it  contains  ? 


LESSON  CLXX. 

Escape  from  a  Panther. — Cooper. 

Elizabeth  Temple  and  Louisa  had  gained  the  summit 
of  the  mcfuntain,  where  they  left  the  highway,  and  pur- 
sued their  course,  under  the  shade  of  the  stately  trees  that 
crowned  the  eminence.  The  day  was  becoming  warm ;  and 
the  girls  plunged  more  deeply  into  the  forest,  as  they  found 
its  invigorating  coolness  agreeably  contrasted  to  the  excessive 
heat  they  had  experienced  in  their  ascent.    The  conversation. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  377 

as  if  by  mutual  consent,  was  entirely  changed  to  the  little 
incidents  and  scenes  of  their  walk ;  and  every  tall  pine,  and 
every  shrub  or  flower,  called  forth  some  simple  expression  of 
admiration. 

In  this  manner  they  proceeded  along  the  margin  of  the 
precipice,  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  placid  Otsego, 
or  pausing  to  listen  to  the  rattling  of  wheels  and  the  sounds 
of  hammers,  that  rose  from  the  valley,  to  mingle  the  signs  of 
men  with  the  scenes  of  nature,  when  Elizabeth  suddenly 
startled,  and  exclaimed — "  Listen !  there  are  the  cries  of  a 
child  on  this  mountain !  Is  there  a  clearing  near  us  ?  or 
can  some  little  one  have  strayed  from  its  parents  1" 

*'  Such  things  frequently  happen,"  returned  Louisa.  **  Let 
us  follow  the  sounds ;  it  may  be  a  wanderer,  starving  on  the 
hill." 

Urged  by  this  consideration,  the  females  pursued  the  low, 
mournful  sounds,  that  proceeded  from  the  forest,  with  quick 
and  impatient  steps.  More  than  once  the  ardent  Elizabeth 
was  on  the  point  of  announcing  that  she  saw  the  sufferer, 
when  Louisa  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and,  pointing  behind 
them,  cried — "  Look  at  the  dog !" 

The  advanced  age  of  Brave  had  long  before  deprived  him 
of  his  activity ;  and  when  his  companions  stopped  to  view 
the  scenery,  or  to  add  to  their  bouquets,  the  mastiff  would  lay 
his  huge  frame  on  the  ground,  and  await  their  movements, 
with  his  eyes  closed,  and  a  listlessness  in  his  air  that  ill  ac- 
corded with  the  character  of  a  protector.  But  when,  aroused 
by  this  cry  from  Louisa,  Miss  Temple  turned,  she  saw  the 
dog  with  his  eyes  keenly  set  on  some  distant  object,  his  head 
bent  near  the  ground,  and  his  hair  actually  rising  on  his 
body,  either  through  fright  or  anger.  It  was  most  probably 
the  latter  ;  for  he  was  growling  in  a  low  key,  and  occasionally 
showing  his  teeth,  in  a  manner  that  would  have  terrified  his 
mistress,  had  she  not  so  well  known  his  good  qualities. 

"  Brave !"  she  said,  "  be  quiet,  Brave !  what  do  you  see, 
fellow?" 

At  the  sounds  of  her  voice,  the  rage  of  the  mastiff,  instead 

of  being  at  all  diminished,  was  very  sensibly  increased.     He 

stalked  in  front  of  the  ladies,  and  seated  himself  at  the  feet 

of  his  mistress,  growling  louder  than  before,  and  occasionally 

32* 


g-yg  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

giving  vent  to  his  ire  by  a  short,  surly  barking.  "  What  doe 
he  see?"  said  Elizabeth;  "there  must  be  some  animal  ii 
sight." 

Hearing  no  answer  from  her  companion,  Miss  Temph 
turned  her  head,  and  beheld  Louisa,  standing  with  her  fact 
whitened  to  the  color  of  death,  and  her  finger  pointing  up 
ward,  with  a  sort  of  flickering,  convulsed  motion.  Th< 
quick  eye  of  Elizabeth  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  b] 
her  friend,  where  she  saw  the  fierce  front  and  glaring  eyes  oi 
a  female  panther,  fixed  on  them  in  horrid  malignity,  am 
threatening  instant  destruction. 

"  Let  us  fly !"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  grasping  the  arm  o 
Louisa,  whose  form  yielded  like  melting  snow,  and  sunl 
lifeless  to  the  earth. 

There  was  not  a  single  feeling  in  the  temperament  oi 
Elizabeth  Temple,  that  could  prompt  her  to  desert  a  compan 
ion  in  such  an  extremity ;  and  she  fell  on  her  knees,  by  th< 
side  of  the  inanimate  Louisa,  tearing  from  the  person  of  he: 
friend,  with  an  instinctive  readiness,  such  parts  of  her  dresi 
as  might  obstruct  her  respiration,  and  encouraging  their  onlj 
safeguard,  the  dog,  at  the  same  time,  by  the  sounds  of  hei 
voice. 

"  Courage,  Brave !"  she  cried — her  own  tones  beginning  t( 
tremble — **  courage,  courage,  good  Brave  !" 

A  quarter-grown  cub,  that  had  hitherto  been  unseen,  now 
appeared,  dropping  from  the  branches  of  a  sapling,  thai 
grew  under  the  shade  of  the  beech  which  held  its  dam 
This  ignorant  but  vicious  creature  approached  near  to  the  dog 
imitating  the  actions  and  sounds  of  its  parent,  but  exhibiting 
a  strange  mixture  of  the  playfulness  of  a  kitten  with  the  fe- 
rocity of  its  race.  Standing  on  its  hind  legs,  it  would  rend 
the  bark  of  a  tree  with  its  fore  paws,  and  play  all  the  antics 
of  a  cat,  for  a  moment ;  and  then,  by  lashing  itself  with  its 
tail,  growling,  and  scratching  the  earth,  it  would  attempt  the 
manifestations  of  anger  that  rendered  its  parent  so  terrific. 

All  this  time,  Brave  stood  firm  and  undaunted,  his  short 
tail  erect,  his  body  drawn  backward  on  its  haunches,  and  his 
eyes  following  the  movements  of  both  dam  and  cub.  At 
every  gambol  played  by  the  latter,  it  approached  nigher  to 
the  dog,  the  growling  of  the  three  becoming  more  horrid  at 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  379 

each  moment,  until  the  younger  beast,  overleaping  its  intend- 
ed bound,  fell  directly  before  the  mastiff.  There  was  a 
moment  of  fearful  cries  and  struggles  ;  but  they  ended  almost 
as  soon  as  commenced,  by  the  cub  appearing  in  the  air, 
hurled  from  the  jaws  of  Brave,  with  a  violence  that  sent  jt 
against  a  tree  so  forcibly  as  to  render  it  completely  senseless. 

Elizabeth  witnessed  the  short  struggle,  and  her  blood  was 
warming  with  the  triumph-  of  the  dog,  when  she  saw  the 
form  of  the  old  panther  in  the  air,  springing  twenty  feet  from 
the  branch  of  the  beech  to  the  back  of  the  mastiff.  No 
words  of  ours  can  describe  the  fury  of  the  conflict  that  fol- 
lowed. It  was  a  confused  struggle  on  the  dried  leaves, 
accompanied  by  loud  and  terrible  cries,  barks  and  growls. 
Miss  Temple  continued,  on  her  knees,  bending  over  the  form 
of  Louisa,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  animals,  with  an  interest  so 
horrid,  and  yet  so  intense,  that  she  almost  forgot  her  own 
stake  in  the  result.  So  rapid  and  vigorous  were  the  bounds 
of  the  inhabitant  of  the  forest,  that  its  active  frame  seemed 
constantly  in  the  air,  while  the  dog  nobly  faced  his  foe,  at 
each  successive  leap.  When  the  panther  lighted  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  mastiff,  which  was  its  constant  aim,  old 
Brave,  though  torn  with  her  talons,  and  stained  with  his  own 
blood,  that  already  flowed  from  a  dozen  wounds,  would  shake 
off  his  furious  foe,  like  a  feather,  and,  rearing  on  his  hind 
legs,  rush  to  the  fray  again,  with  his  jaws  distended,  and  a 
dauntless  eye. 

But  age,  and  his  pampered  life,  greatly  disqualified  the 
noble  mastiff  for  such  a  struggle.  In  every  thing  but  cour- 
age, he  was  only  the  vestige  of  what  he  had  once  been.  A 
higher  bound  than  ever  raised  the  wary  and  furious  beast 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  the  dog — who  was  making  a  des- 
perate, but  fruitless  dash  at  her — from  which  she  alighted,  in 
a  favorable  position,  on  the  back  of  her  aged  foe.  For  a 
single  moment,  only,  could  the  panther  remain  there,  the 
great  strength  of  the  dog  returning  with  a  convulsive  effort. 
But  Elizabeth  saw,  as  Brave  fastened  his  teeth  in  the  side 
of  his  enemy,  that  the  collar  of  brass  around  his  neck,  which 
had  been  glittering  throughout  the  fray,  was  of  the  color  of 
blood,  and,  directly,  that  his  frame  was  sinking  to  the  earth, 
where  it  soon  lay  prostrate  and  helpless.     Several  mighty 


380  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

efforts  of  the  wild-cat  to  extricate  herself  from  the  jaws  of 
the  dog,  followed ;  but  they  were  fruitless,  until  the  mastiff 
turned  on  his  back,  his  lips  collapsed,  and  his  teeth  loosened ; 
when  the  short  convulsions  and  stillness  that  succeeded, 
announced  the  death  of  poor  Brave. 

Elizabeth  now  lay  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the  beast. 
There  is  said  to  be  something  in  the  front  of  the  image  of 
the  Maker,  that  daunts  the  hearts  of  the  inferior  beings  of 
his  creation ;  and  it  would  seem  that  some  such  power,  in 
the  present  instance,  suspended  the  threatened  blow.  The 
eyes  of  the  monster  and  the  kneeling  maiden  met,  for  an 
instant,  when  the  former  stooped  to  examine  her  fallen  foe ; 
next  to  scent  her  luckless  cub.  From  the  latter  examination 
it  turned,  however,  with  its  eyes  apparently  emitting  flashes 
of  fire,  its  tail  lashing  its  sides  furiously,  and  its  claws  pro- 
jecting for  inches  from  its  broad  feet. 

Miss  Temple  did  not,  or  could  not,  move.  Her  hands 
were  clasped  in  the  attitude  of  prayer  ;  but  her  eyes  were 
still  drawn  to  her  terrible  enemy  ;  her  cheeks  were  blanched 
to  the  whiteness  of  marble,  and  her  lips  were  slightly  sepa- 
rated with  horror.  The  moment  seemed  now  to  have  arrived 
for  the  fatal  termination  ;  and  the  beautiful  figure  of  Elizabeth 
was  bowing  meekly  to  the  stroke,  when  a  rustling  of  leaves 
from  behind  seemed  rather  to  mock  the  organs,  than  to  meet 
her  ears. 

"Hist!  hist!"  said  a  low  voice ;  " stoop  lower,  gall ;  your 
bunnet  hides  the  creator's  head." 

It  was  rather  the  yielding  of  nature,  than  a  compliance 
with  this  unexpected  order,  that  caused  the  head  of  our  her-^ 
oine  to  sink  on  her  bosom ;  when  she  heard  the  report  of 
the  rifle,  the  whizzing  of  the  bullet,  and  the  enraged  cries  of 
the  beast,  who  was  rolling  over  on  the  earth,  biting  its  own 
flesh,  and  tearing  the  twigs  and  branches  within  its  reaeh. 
At  the  next  instant,  the  form  of  the  Leather-stocking  rushed 
by  her  ;  and  he  called  aloud — "  Come  in,  Hector  ;  come  in, 
you  old  fool ;  'tis  a  hard-lived  animal,  and  may  jump  ag'in." 

Natty  maintained  his  position  in  front  of  the  maidens,, 
most  fearlessly,  notwithstanding  the  violent  bounds  and 
threatening  aspect  of  the  wounded  panther,  which  gave  sev- 
eral indications  of  returning  strength  and  ferocity,  until  his 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  381 

rifle  was  again  loaded ;  when  he  stepped  up  to  the  enraged 
animal,  and,  placing  the  muzzle  close  to  its  head,  every 
spark  of  life  was  extinguished  by  the  discharge. 


LESSON   CLXXI. 

Order  of  Nature. — Pope. 

See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth, 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  go  ! 
Around,  how  wide  !  how  deep  extend  below ! 
Vast  chain  of  being,  which  from  God  began, 
Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man. 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect — what  no  eye  can  see, 
No  glass  can  reach — from  infinite  to  thee. 
From  thee  to  nothing !     On  superior  powers 
Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours  ; 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroyed ; 
From  nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike. 
Tenth  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

And  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll, 
Alike  essential  to  the  amazing  whole. 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole,  must  fall 
Let  earth,  unbalanced,  from  her  orbit  fly. 
Planets  and  suns  rush  lawless  through  the  sky  ; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled, 
Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  world, 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod. 
And  nature  tremble   to  the  throne  of  God ! 
All  this  dread  order  break  1    For  whom  ?     For  thee 
Vile  worm  ! — O  madness  !  pride  !  impiety  ! 

What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand  to  toil,  aspire  to  be  the  head  ? 


gg2  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear,  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another  in  this  general  frame  ; 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains, 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  all  ordains. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul  ; 
That  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same 
Great  in  the  earth  as  in  the  ethereal  frame ; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees. 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent. 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part 
>     As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart  : 
~~'  AS  luir,  as  perfect,  iii  Vile  man  that  niGurns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns : 
To  him,  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects  and  equals  all. 

Cease,  then,  nor  Order  Imperfection  name  : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  thee 
Submit ! — in  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 
Secure  to  be  as  blessed  as  thou  canst  bear  ; 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art  unknown  to  thee ; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see ; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood  ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good  : 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear — "  Whatever  is,  is  right." 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


LESSON  CLXXII. 

A  Siiter  pleading  for  the  Life  of  a  condemned  Br  other.- 
Shakspeare. 

Isabella.     I  am  a  woful  suitor  to  your  honor  ; 
Please  but  your  honor  hear  me. 

Angelo.     Well ;  what's  your  suit  1 

Isab.     There^  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor, 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice, 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must. 

Ang.     Well ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.     I  have  a  brother  is  condemned  to  die  ; 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 
And  not  my  brother. 

Ang.     Condemn  the  fault,  and  not  the  actor  of  it  ? 
Why,  every  fault's  condemned  ere  it  be  done  ; 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 
To  find  the  faults,  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isab.     O  just  but  severe  law  ! 
I  had  a  brother,  then  ; — must  he  needs  die  1 

Ang.     Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isab.     Yes ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him, 
And  neither  Heaven  nor  man  grieve  at  the  mercy. 

Ang.     I  will  not  do't. 

Isab.     But  can  you,  if  you  would  1 

Ang.     Look  ;  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 

Isab.     But  might  you  do't,  and  do  the  world  no  wrong. 
If  so  your  heart  were  touched  with  that  remorse. 
As  mine  is  to  him  ? 

Ang.     He's  sentenced  ;  'tis  too  late. 

Isab.     Too  late  1    Why,  no ;  I,  that  do  speak  a  word, 
May  call  it  back  again  :  well  believe  this, 
No  ceremony  that  to  the  great  belongs. 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword. 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe. 
Becomes  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace. 
As  mercy  does.     If  he  had  been  as  you, 


384  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And  you  as  he,  you  would  have  slipt  like  him; 
But  he,  like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stern. 

Ang.     Pray  you,  begone. 

Isab.     I  would  to  Heaven  I  had  your  potency, 
And  you  were  Isabel ;  should  it  then  be  thus  1 
No  ;  .1  would  tell  what  'twere  to  be  a  judge, 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

Ang.     Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law. 
And  you  but  waste  your  words 

Isab.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
Why,  all  the  souls  that  are,  were  forfeit  oncW 
And  He,  that  might  the  'vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy.     How  would  you  be, 
If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  1     Oh,  think  on  that ; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
lAke  man  new  made. 

Ang.     Be  you  content,  fair  maid ; 
It  is  the  law,  not  I,  condemns  your  brother. 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son, 
It  should  be  thus  with  him  ;  he  dies  to-morrow. 

Isab.    To-morrow  ?  oh !  that's  sudden.     Spare  him,  spare 
him. 
Good,  good  my  lord,  bethink  you  : 
Who  is  it  that  hath  died  for  this  offence  ? 
There's  many  hath  committed  it. 

Ang.     The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  though  it  hath  slept  j 
Those  many  had  not  dared  to  do  that  evil, 
If  the  first  man  that  did  the  edict  infringe, 
Had  answered  for  his  deed.     Now,  'tis  awake 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done  ;  and,  like  a  prophet. 
Looks  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  evils. 
Or  new,  or  by  remissness  new-conceived, 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatched  and  born. 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees ; 
But  ere  they  live,  to  end. 

Isab.     Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.     I  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice ; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 
Which  a  dismissed  offence  would  after  gall ; 


YOUNG  LADIES*  CLASS  BOOK.  385 

And  do  him  right,  that^  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied  ; 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow ;  be  content. 

Isah.     So  you  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this  sentence ; 
And  he,  that  suffers  :  oh !  'tis  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 

To  use  it  like  a  giant. Mercifiil  Heaven ! 

Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  and  sulph'rous  bolt 

Splittest  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak, 

Than  the  soft  myrtle  :  Oh,  but  man,  proud  man, 

Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority. 

Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured. 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven, 

As  make  the  angels  weep. 

We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  with  yourself: 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints,- — 'tis  wit  in  them  ; 

But,  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

That  in  the  captain's  but  a  choleric  word. 

Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Ang.     Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 

Isab.     Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself. 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top  :  go  to  your  bosom ; 
Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault ;  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Ang.     She  speaks,  'tis  such  sense. 
That  my  sense  bleeds  with  it.     Fare  you  well. 

Isah.     Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.     I  will  bethink  me ;  come  again  to-morrow. 

Isab.     Hark,  how  I'll  bribe  you :  good  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.    How  !  bribe  me  1 

Isab.    Ay,  with  such  gifts,  that  Heaven  shall  share  with 
you. 
Not  with  fond  shekels  of  the  tested  gold, 
Or  stones,  whose  rate  is  either  rich  or  poor,  , 

As  fancy  values  them  ;  bat  with  true  prayers, 
33 


386  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

That  shall  be  up  at  Heaven,  and  enter  there, 
Ere  sun-rise ;  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.    Well,  come  to-morrow. 

Xsab.    Heaven  keep  your  honor  safe. 


LESSON  CLXXni. 

The  Passions. — An  Ode. — Collins. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung. 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell. 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting. 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting ; 
By  turns,  they  felt  the  glowmg  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  : 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round. 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard,  apart. 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each — for  madness  ruled  the  hour — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid  ; 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed  :  his  eyes,  on  fire, 
In  lightning  owned  his  secret  stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 
And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strmgs 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  387 

With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair 

Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled — 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air — 

'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope !  with  eyes  so  fair^ 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail. 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  her  song : 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft,  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung ;  but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose. 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down, 

And,  with  a  withering  look. 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread. 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  wo ; 

And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat : 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between. 

Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his 
head. 

Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fixed — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  : 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  : 

And  now  it  courted  Love  ;  now,  raving,  called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired  j 


:i^i 


388  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

And,  from  her  wild,  sequestered  seat. 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  : 
Through  glades  and  glooms,  the  mingled  measures  stole, 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  streams  with  fond  delay, 

(Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing. 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing,) 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But,  oh !  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 
When  Cheerfulness — a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue— 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew. 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung ! — 

The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known. 
The  oak-crowned  sisters  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen, 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  were  seen. 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear. 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial  :- 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 
First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed  ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  viol. 
Whose  sweet,  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain. 
They  saw  in  Tempe's  vale  her  native  maids, 

Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades. 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing  : 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings. 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay,  fantastic  round, 

(Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound,) 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  389 

LESSON    CLXXIV. 

Indolence  and  Intellectual  Dissipation. — Wirt. 

Wherever  I  see  the  native  bloom  of  health  and  the  gen- 
uine smile  of  content,  I  mark  down  the  character  as  indus- 
trious and  virtuous ;  and  I  never  yet  failed  to  have  the 
prepossession  confirmed  on  inquiry.  So,  on  the  other  hand, 
wherever  I  see  pale,  repining  and  languid  discontent,  and 
hear  complaints  uttered  against  the  hard  lot  of  humanity, 
my  first  impression  is,  that  the  character  from  whom  they 
proceed  is  indolent,  or  vicious,  or  both  \  and  I  have  not  often 
had  occasion  to  retract  the  opinion. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  class  of  characters,  rather  indolent 
than  vicious,  who  are  really  to  be  pitied  ;  whose  innocent 
and  captivating  amusements,  becoming  at  length  their  sole 
pursuits,  tend  only  to  whet  their  sensibility  to  misfortunes, 
which  they  contribute  to  bring  on  ;  and  to  form  pictures  of 
life  so  highly  aggravated,  as  to  render  life  itself  stale  and  flat. 

In  this  class  of  victims  to  a  busy  indolence,  next  to  those 
who  devote  their  whole  lives  to  the  unprofitable  business  of 
writing  works  of  imagination,  are  those  who  spend  the 
whole  of  theirs  in  reading  them.  There  are  several  men 
and  women  of  this  description,  in  the  circle  of  my  acquaint- 
ance ;  persons,  whose  misfortune  it  is  to  be  released  from  the 
salutary  necessity  of  supporting  themselves  by  their  own 
exertions,  and  who  vainly  seek  for  happiness  in  intellectual 
dissipation. 

Bianoa  is  one  of  the  finest  girls  in  the  whole  round  of  my 
acquaintance,  and  is  now  one  of  the  happiest.  But  when  I 
first  became  acquainted  with  her,  which  was  about  three 
years  ago,  she  was  an  object  of  pity  :  pale,  emaciated,  ner- 
vous and  hysterical,  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen,  the  days 
had  already  come,  when  she  could  truly  say,  she  had  no 
pleasure  in  them.  She  confessed  to  me,  that  she  had  lain 
on  her  bed,  day  afi;er  day,  for  months  together,  reading,  or 
rather  devouring,  with  a  kind  of  morbid  appetite,  every  novel 
that  she  could  lay  her  hands  on — without  any  pause  between 
them,  without  any  rumination,  so  that  the  incidents  were  all 
33* 


390  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

conglomerated  and  confounded  in  her  memory.  She  had  not 
drawn  from  them  all  a  single  useful  maxim  for  the  conduct 
of  life  ;  but,  calculating  on  the  fairy  world,  which  her  authors 
had  depicted  to  her,  she  was  reserving  all  her  address  and 
all  her  powers  for  incidents  that  would  never  occur,  and 
characters  that  would  never  appear. 

I  advised  her  immediately  to  change  her  plan  of  life ;  to 
take  the  whole  charge  of  her  mother's  household  upon  herself; 
to  adopt  a  system  in  the  management  of  it,  and  adhere  to  it 
rigidly ;  to  regard  it  as  her  business  exclusively,  and  make 
herself  responsible  for  it ;  and  then,  if  she  had  time  for  it, 
to  read  authentic  history,  which  would  show  her  the  world 
as  it  really  was ;  and  not  to  read  rapidly  and  superficially, 
with  a  view  merely  to  feast  on  the  novelty  and  variety  of 
events,  but  deliberately  and  studiously,  with  her  pen  in  her 
hand,  and  her  note-book  by  her  side,  extracting,  as  she  went 
along,  not  only  every  prominent  event,  with  its  date  and  cir- 
cumstances, but  every  elegant  and  judicious  reflection  of  the 
author,  so  as  to  form  a  little  book  of  practical  wisdom  for 
herself  She  followed  my  advice,  and,  when  I  went  to  see 
her  again,  six  months  afterwards,  Bianca  had  regained  all 
the  symmetry  and  beauty  of  her  form ;  the  vernal  rose 
t)loomed  again  on  her  cheeks,  the  starry  radiance  shot  from 
her  eyes ;  and,  with  a  smile  which  came  directly  from  her 
heart,  and  spoke  her  gratitude  more  exquisitely  than  words, 
she  gave  me  her  hand,  and  bade  me  welcome. 

In  short,  the  divine  denunciation,  that  in  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  man  should  earn  his  food,  is  guarantied  so  effectually, 
that  labor  is  indispensable  to  his  peace.  It  is  the  part  of 
wisdom,  to  adapt  ourselves  to  the  state  of  being  in  which  we 
are  placed  ;  and,  since  here  we  find  that  business  and  indus- 
try are  as  certainly  the  pledges  of  peace  and  virtue,  as 
Tacancy  and  indolence  are  of  vice  and  sorrow,  let  every  one 
do,  what  is  easily  in  his  power — create  a  business,  even 
where  fortune  may  hate  made  it  unnecessary,  and  pursue  that 
business  with  all  the  ardor  and  perseverance  of  the  direst 
necessity  :  so  shall  we  see  our  country  as  far  excelling  others 
in  health,  contentment  and  virtue,  as  it  now  surpasses  them 
in  liberty  and  tranquillity. 


YOUNG  LADIES    CLASS  BOOK.  391 

LESSON  CLXXV. 

Darkness. — Byron. 

I  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air ; 
Morn  came,  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day ; 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 
Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  hearts 
Were  chilled  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light : 
And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires  ;  and  the  thrones, 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings,  the  huts. 
The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, — 
Were  burnt  for  beacons  ;  cities  were  consumed. 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing  homes 
To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face  : 
Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  volcanoes  and  their  mountain  torch. 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained  : 
Forests  were  set  on  fire  ;  but,  hour  by  hour, 
They  fell  and  faded,  and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a  crash,  and  all  was  black. 
The  brows  of  men,  by  the  despairing  light, 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 
The  flashes  fell  upon  them.     Some  lay  down. 
And  hid  their  eyes,  and  wept ;  and  some  did  rest 
Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled ; 
And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up 
With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky. 
The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;  and  then  again. 
With  curses,  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 
And  gnashed  their  teeth  and  howled.  The  wild  birds  shrieked, 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 
And  flap  their  useless  wings  :  the  wildest  brutes 


392         YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

■  Came  tame  and  tremulous  ;  and  vipers  crawled 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 
Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food. 

And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 
Did  glut  himself  again — a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sat  sullenly  apart, 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  :  no  love  was  left ; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious ;   and  men 
Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh  : 
The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devoured ; 
Even  dogs  assailed  their  masters — all,  save  one 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  birds,  and  beasts,  and  famished  men,  at  bay. 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws  ;  himself  sought  out  no  food, 
But,  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 
And  a  quick,  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answered  not  with  a  caress — he  died. 

The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees ;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 
And  they  were  enemies  ;  they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place. 
Where  had  been  heaped  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage  ;  they  raked  up. 
And,  shivering,  scraped,  with  their  cold,  skeleton  hands, 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame. 
Which  was  a  mockery  ;  then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects— saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died — 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written /encZ.     The  world  was  void; 
The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump — 
Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless— 
A  lump  of  death— a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 
The  rivers,  lakes  and  ocean,  all  stood  still. 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  393 

And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths ; 

Ships,  sailorless,  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal ;  as  they  dropped, 

They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge  : 

The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave  ; 

The  moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before ; 

The  winds  were  withered  in  the  stagnant  air. 

And  the  clouds  perished  ;    Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them  ;  she  was  the  universe. 

S 

LESSON  CLXXVI 

The  Tiger's  Cave : — An  Adventure  among  the  Mountains  of 
Quito. — Edinburgh  Literary  Journal. 

[Translated  from  the  Danish  of  Elmquest,  and  the  German  of  Doring.] 

On  leaving  the  Indian  village,  we  continued  to  wind  round 
Chimborazo's  wide  base;  but  its  snow-crowned  head  no 
longer  shone  above  us  in  clear  brilliancy,  for  a  dense  fog  was 
gathering  gradually  around  it.  Our  guides  looked  anxiously 
towards  it,  and  announced  their  apprehensions  of  a  violent 
storm.  We  soon  found  that  their  fears  were  well  founded. 
The  thunder  began  to  roll,  and  resounded  through  the  moun- 
tainous passes  with  the  most  terrific  grandeur.  Then  came 
the  vivid  lightning  ;  flash  following  flash — above,  around,  be- 
neath,— every  where  a  sea  of  fire.  We  sought  a  momentary 
shelter  in  a  cleft  of  the  rocks,  whilst  one  of  our  guides 
hastened  forward  to  seek  a  more  secure  asylum.  In  a  short 
time,  he  returned,  and  informed  us  that  he  had  discovered  a 
spacious  cavern,  which  would  afford  us  sufficient  protection 
from  the  elements.  We  proceeded  thither  immediately,  and, 
with  great  difficulty,  and  not  a  little  danger,  at  last  got 
into  it. 

When  the  storm  had  somewhat  abated,  our  guides  ventured 
out  in  order  to  ascertain  if  it  were  possible  to  continue  our 
journey.  The  cave  in  which  we  had  taken  refuge,  was  so 
extremely  dark,  that,  if  we  moved  a  few  paces  from  the  en- 
trance, we  could  not  see  an  inch  before  us  j  and  we  were 


\:^- 


394  >;OUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

debating  as  to  the  propriety  of  leaving  it,  even  before  the 
Indians  came  back,  when  we  suddenly  heard  a  singular 
groaning  or  growling  in  the  farther  end  of  the  cavern,  which 
instantly  fixed  all  our  attention.  Wharton  and  myself  listen- 
ed anxiously  ;  but  our  daring  and  inconsiderate  young  friend 
Lincoln,  together  with  my  huntsman,  crept  about  upon  their 
hands  and  knees,  and  endeavored  to  discover,  by  groping, 
from  whence  the  sound  proceeded. 

They  had  not  advanced  far  into  the  cavern,  before  we  heard 
them  utter  an  exclamation  of  surprise ;  and  they  returned  to  ^ 
us,  each  carrying  in  his  arms  an  animal  singularly  marked, 
and  about  the  size  of  a  cat,  seemingly  of  great  strength  and 
power,  and  furnished  with  immense  fangs.  The  eyes  were 
of  a  green  color ;  strong  claws  were  upon  their  feet ;  and  a 
blood-red  tongue  hung  out  of  their  mouths.  Wharton  had 
scarcely  glanced  at  them,  when  he  exclaimed  in  consternation, 
"  We  have  come  into  the  den  of  a  — "  He  was  interrupted 
by  a  fearful  cry  of  dismay  from  our  guides,  who  came  rushing 
precipitately  towards  us,  calling  out,  "  A  tiger !  a  tiger !" 
and,  at  the  same  time,  with  extraordinary  rapidity,  they 
climbed  up  a  cedar  tree,  which  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the 
cave,  and  hid  themselves  among  the  branches. 

After  the  first  sensation  of  horror  and  surprise,  which  ren- 
dered me  motionless  for  a  moment,  had  subsided,  I  grasped 
my  fire-arms.  Wharton  had  already  regained  his  composure 
and  self-possession ;  and  he  called  to  us  to  assist  him  instant- 
ly in  blocking  up  the  mouth  of  the  cave  with  an  immense 
stone,  which  fortunately  lay  near  it.  The  sense  of  approach- 
ing danger  augmented  our  strength ;  for  we  now  distinctly 
heard  the  growl  of  the  ferocious  animal,  and  we  were  lost 
beyond  redemption  if  he  reached  the  entrance  before  we 
could  get  it  closed.  Ere  this  was  done,  we  could  distinctly 
see  the  tiger  bounding  towards  the  spot,  and  stooping  in 
order  to  creep  into  his  den  by  the  narrow  opening.  At  this 
fearful  moment,  our  exertions  were  successful,  and  the  great 
Btone  kept  the  wild  beast  at  bay. 

There  was  a  small  open  space,  however,  left  between  the 
top  of  the  entrance  and  the  stone,  through  which  we  could 
see  the  head  of  the  animal,  illuminated  by  his  glowing  eyes, 
which  he  rolled  glaring  with  fury  upon  us.     His  frightful  roar- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  395 

ing,  too,  penetrated  to  the  depths  of  the  cavern,  and  was 
answered  by  the  hoarse  growling  of  the  cubs.  Our  ferocious 
enemy  attempted  first  to  remove  the  stone  with  his  powerful 
claws,  and  then  to  push  it  with  his  head  from  its  place ;  and 
these  eiforts,  proving  abortive,  served  only  to  increase  his 
wrath.  He  uttered  a  tremendous,  heart-piercing  howl,  and 
his  flaming  eyes  darted  light  into  the  darkness  of  our  retreat. 

"  Now  is  the  time  to  fire  at  him,"  said  Wharton,  with  his 
usual  calmness ;  "  aim  at  his  eyes ;  the  ball  will  go  through 
his  brain,  and  we  shall  then  have  a  chance  to  get  rid  of  him." 

Frank  seized  his  double-barrelled  gun,  and  Lincoln  his 
pistols.  The  former  placed  the  muzzle  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  tiger,  and  Lincoln  did  the  same.  At  Wharton's  com- 
mand, they  both  drew  the  triggers  at  the  same  moment  ; 
but  no  shot  followed.  The  tiger,  who  seemed  aware  that  the 
flash  indicated  an  attack  upon  him,  sprang  growling  from 
the  entrance,  but,  feeling  himself  unhurt,  immediately  turned 
back  again,  and  stationed  himself  in  his  former  place.  The 
powder  in  both  pieces  was  wet. 

"  All  is  now  over,"  said  Wharton  ;  "  we  have  only  now  to 
choose  whether  we  shall  die  of  hunger,  together  with  these 
animals  who  are  shut  up  along  with  us,  or  open  the  entrance 
to  the  blood-thirsty  monster  without,  and  so  make  a  quicker 
end  of  the  matter." 

So  saying,  he  placed  himself  close  beside  the  stone,  which, 
for  the  moment,  defended  us,  and  looked  undauntedly  upon 
the  lightning  eyes  of  the  tiger.  Lincoln  raved,  and  Frank 
took  a  piece  of  strong  cord  from  his  pocket,  and  hast- 
ened to  the  farther  end  of  the  cave ;  I  knew  not  with  what 
design.  We  soon,  however,  heard  a  low,  stifled  groaning ; 
and  the  tiger,  which  had  heard  it  also,  became  more  restless 
and  disturbed  than  ever.  He  went  backwards  and  forwards 
before  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  in  the  most  wild  and  impetu- 
ous manner  ;  then  stood  still,  and,  stretching  out  his  neck  in 
the  direction  of  the  forest,  broke  forth  into  a  deafening  howl. 

Our  two  Indian  guides  took  advantage  of  this  opportunity, 
to  discharge  several  arrows  from  the  tree.  He  was  struck 
more  than  once ;  but  the  light  weapons  bounded  back  harm- 
less from  his  thick  skin.  At  length,  however,  one  of  them 
struck  him  near  the  eye,  and  the  arrow  remained  sticking  in 


396       V  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

the  wound.  He  now  broke  anew  into  the  wildest  fury,  sprang 
at  the  tree,  and  tore  it  with  his  claws,  as  if  he  would  have 
dragged  it  to  the  ground.  But  having,  at  length,  succeeded 
in  getting  rid  of  the  arrow,  he  became  more  calm,^nd  laid 
himself  down,  as  before,  in  front  of  the  cave. 

Frank  now  returned  from  the  lower  end  of  the  den,  and 
a  glance  showed  us  what  he  had  been  doing.  In  each  hand, 
and  dangling  from  the  end  of  a  string,  were  the  two  cubs. 
He  had  strangled  them  ;  and,  before  we  were  aware  what  he 
intended,  he  threw  them'  through  the  opening  to  the  tiger. 
No  sooner  did  the  animal  perceive  them,  than  he  gazed  ear- 
nestly upon  them,  and  began  to  examine  them  closely,  turning 
them  cautiously  from  side  to  side.  As  soon  as  he  became 
aware  that  they  were  dead,  he  uttered  so  piercing  a  howl  of 
sorrow,  that  we  were  obliged  to  put  our  hands  to  our  ears. 


LESSON  CLXXVII. 

The  same, — concluded. 

The  thunder  had  now  ceased,  and  the  storm  had  sunk  to 
a  gentle  gale ;  the  songs  of  birds  were  again  heard  in  the 
neighboring  forest,  and  the  sunbeams  sparkled  in  the  drops 
that  hung  from  the  leaves.  We  saw,  through  the  aperture, 
how  all  nature  was  reviving,  after  the  wild  war  of  elements, 
which  had  so  recently  taken  place ;  but  the  contrast  only 
made  our  situation  the  more  horrible.  We  were  in  a  grave, 
from  which  there  was  no  deliverance ;  and  a  monster,  worse 
than  the  fabled  Cerberus,  kept  watch  over  us.  The  tiger 
had  laid  himself  down  beside  his  whelps.  He  was  a  beauti- 
ful animal,  of  great  size  and  strength ;  and  his  limbs,  being 
stretched  out  at  their  full  length,  displayed  his  immense 
power  of  muscle.  A  double  row  of  great  teeth  stood  far 
enough  apart  to  show  his  large  red  tongue,  from  which  the 
white  foam  fell  in  large  drops.  All  at  once,  another  roar  was 
heard  at  a  distance,  and  the  tiger  immediately  rose  and  an- 
swered it  with  a  mournful  howl.  At  the  same  instant,  our 
Indians  uttered  a  shriek,  which  announced  that  some  new 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.    *  397 

danger  threatened  us.  A  few  moments  confirmed  our  worst 
fears;  for  another  tiger,  not  "quite  so  large  as  the  former, 
came  rapidly  towards  the  spot  where  we  were. 

The  howls  which  the  tigress  gave,  when  she  had  examined 
the  bodies  of  her  cubs,  surpassed  every  thing  of  horrible  that 
we  had  yet  heard ;  and  the  tiger  mingled  his  mournful  cries 
with  hers.  Suddenly  her  roaring  was  lowered  to  a  hoarse 
growling,  and  we  saw  her  anxiously  stretch  out  her  head, 
extend  her  wide  and  smoking  nostrils,  and  look  as  if  she  were 
determined  to  discover  immediately  the  murderers  of  her 
young.  Her  eyes  quickly  fell  upon  us,  and  she  made  a 
spring  forward,  with  the  intention  of  penetrating  to  our  place 
of  refuge.  Perhaps  she  might  have  been  enabled,  by  her 
immense  strength,  to  push  away  the  stone,  had  we  not,  with 
all  our  united  power,  held  it  against  her.  When  she  found 
that  all  her  efforts  were  fruitless,  she  approached  the  tiger, 
who  lay  stretched  out  beside  his  cubs,  and  he  rose  and  joined 
in  her  hollow  roarings.  They  stood  together  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, as  if  in  consultation,  and  then  suddenly  went  off  at  a 
rapid  pace,  and  disappeared  from  our  sight.  T!heir  howling 
died  away  in  the  distance,  and  then  entirely  ceased. 

Our  Indians  descended  from  their  tree,  and  called  upon  us 
to  sgize  the  only  possibility  of  our  yet  saving  ourselves,  by  in- 
stant flight ;  for  that  the  tigers  had  only  gone  round  the  height 
to  seek  another  inlet  to  the  cave,  with  which  they  were,  no 
doubt,  acquainted.  In  the  greatest  haste  the  stone  was  push- 
ed aside,  and  we  stepped  forth  from  what  we  had  considered 
a  living  grave.  We  now  heard  once  more  the  roaring  of  the 
tigers,  though  at  a  distance ;  and,  following  the  example  of 
our  guides,  we  precipitately  struck  into  a  side  path.  From 
the  number  of  roots  and  branches  of  trees,  with  which  the 
storm  had  strewed  our  way,  and  the  slipperiness  of  the  road, 
our  flight  was  slow  and  difficult. 

We  had  proceeded  thus  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
when  we  found  that  our  way  led  along  the  edge  of  a  rocky 
cliff,  with  innumerable  fissures.  We  had  just  entered  upon 
it,  when  suddenly  the  Indians,  who  were  before  us,  uttered 
one  of  their  piercing  shrieks,  and  we  immediately  became 
aware  that  the  tigers  were  in  pursuit  of  us.  Urged  by 
despair,  we  rushed  towards  one  of  the  breaks,  or  gulfs,  in  our 
34' 


398  V      YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

way,  over  which  was  thrown  a  bridge  of  reeds,  that  sprang 
up  and  down  at  every  step,  and  could  be  trod  with  safety  by 
the  light  foot  of  the  Indians  alone.  Deep  in  the  hollow  be- 
low rushed  an  impetuous  stream,  and  a  thousand  pointed 
and  jagged  rocks  threatened  destruction  on  every  side. 

Lincoln,  my  huntsman,  and  myself,  passed  over  the  chasm 
in  safety ;  but  Wharton  was  still  in  the  middle  of  the  waving 
bridge,  and  endeavoring  to  steady  himself,  when  both 'the 
tigers  were  seen  to  issue  from  the  adjoining  forest ;  and  the 
moment  they  descried  us,  they  bounded  towards  us  with 
dreadful  roarings.  Meanwhile,  Wharton  had  nearly  gained 
the  safe  side  of  the  gulf,  and  we  were  all  clambering  up  the 
rocky  cliff  except  Lincoln,  who  remained  at  the  reedy  bridge 
to  assist  his  friend  to  step  upon  firm  ground.  Wharton, 
though  the  ferocious  animals  were  close  upon  him,  never  lost 
his  courage  or  presence  of  mind.  As  soon  as  he  had  gained- 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  knelt  down,  and  with  his  sword  di- 
vided the  fastenings  by  which  the  bridge  was  attached  to  the 
rock. 

He  expected  that  an  effectual  barrier  would  thus  be  put  to 
the  farther  progress  of  our  pursuers  ;  but  he  was  mistaken ; 
for  he  had  scarcely  accomplished  his  task,  when  the  tigress, 
without  a  moment's  pause,  rushed  towards  the  chasm,  and 
attempted  to  bound  over  it.  It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see  the 
mighty  animal  suspended,  for  a  moment,  in  the  air,  above 
the  abyss ;  but  the  scene  passed  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Her  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  distance :  she  fell  into  the 
gulf,  and,  before  she  reached  the  bottom,  she  was  torn  into  a 
thousand  pieces  by  the  jagged  points  of  the  rocks.  Her  fate 
did  not  in  the  least  dismay  her  companion;  he  followed  her 
with  an  immense  spring,  and  reached  the  opposite  side,  but 
only  with  his  fore  claws ;  and  thus  he  clung  to  the  edge  of 
the  precipice,  endeavoring  to  gain  a  footing.  The  Indians 
again  uttered  a  wild  shriek,  as  if  all  hope  had  been  lost. 

But  Wharton,  who  was  nearest  the  edge  of  the  rock, 
advanced  courageously  towards  the  tiger,  and  struck  his 
sword  into  the  animal's  breast.  Enraged  beyond  all  measure, 
the  wild  beast  collected  all  his  strength,  and,  with  a  violent 
effort,  fixing  one  of  his  hind  legs  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
he  seized  Wharton  by  the  thigh.     That  heroic  man  still  pre- 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  399 

served  his  fortitude  ;  he  grasped  the  trunk  of  a  tree  with  his 
left  hand,  to  steady  and  support  himself,  while,  with  his  right, 
he  wrenched  and  violently  turned  the  sword,  that  was  still  in 
the  breast  of  the  tiger.  All  this  was  the  work  of  an  instant. 
The  Indians,  Frank  and  myself,  hastened  to  his  assistance  ; 
but  Lincoln,  wha  was  already  at  his  side,  had  seized  Whar- 
ton's gun,  which  lay  near  upon  the  ground,  and  struck  so 
powerful  a  blow  with  the  butt  end  upon  the  head  of  the  tiger, 
that  the  animal,  stunned  and  overpowered,  let  go  his  hold^ 
and  fell  back  into  the  abyss. 


LESSON    CLXXVIIL 

Tlie  Sword. — Miss  Landon. 

'TwAS  the  battle  field ;   and  the  cold,  pale  moon 
Looked  down  on  the  dead  and  dying ; 

And  the  wind  passed  o'er,  with  a  dirge  and  a  wail, 
Where  the  young  and  the  brave  were  lying. 

With  his  father's  sword  in  his  red  right  hand, 

And  the  hostile  dead  around  him. 
Lay  a  youthful  chief;  but  his  bed  was  the  ground, 

And  the  grave's  icy  sleep  had  bound  him. 

A  reckless  rover,  mid  death  and  doom, 
Passed  a  soldier,  his  plunder  seeking  ; 

Careless  he  stepped  where  friend  and  foe 
Lay  alike  in  their  life-blood  reeking. 

Drawn  by  the  shine  of  the  warrior's  sword, 

The  soldier  paused  beside  iit ; 
He  wrenched  the  hand  with  a  giant's  strength. 

But  the  grasp  of  the  dead  defied  it. 

He  loosed  his  hold,  and  his  noble  heart 
Took  part  with  the  dead  before  him ; 

And  he  honored  the  brave  who  died  sword  in  hand, 
As  with  softened  brow  he  leaned  o'er  him. 


400  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

"  A  soldier's  deaih  thou  hast  boldly  died, 

A  soldier's  grave  won  by  it ; 
Before  I  would  take  that  sword  from  thine  hand^ 

My  own  life's  blood  should  dye  it. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  left  for  the  carrion  crow^ 

Or  the  wolf  to  batten  o'er  thee  ; 
Or  the  coward  insult  the  gallant  dead, 

Who  in  life  had  trembled  before  thee." 

Then  dug  he  a  grave  in  the  crimson  earth, 
Where  his  warrior  foe  was  sleeping  ; 

And  he  laid  him  there,  in  honor  and  rest, 
With  his  sword  in  his  own  brave  keeping. 


LESSON  CLXXIX. 

Address  to  the  Deity. — Mrs.  Barbauld. 

God  of  my  life,  and  Author  of  my  days 
Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise. 
And,  trembling,  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 
That  hallowed  name,  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung : 
Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 
Than  vail  their  faces,  tremble,  and  adore. 
Worms,  angels,  men,  in  every  different  sphere. 
Are  equal  all ;   for  all  are  nothing  here. 
All  nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name. 
Which  nature's  works,  through  all  their  parts,  proclaim. 
I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control. 
And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  through  my  soul : 
As  by  a  charm,  the  waves  of  grief  subside  • 
Impetuous  passion  stops  her  headlong  tide. 
At  thy  felt  presence,  all  emotions  cease. 
And  my  hushed  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace; 
Till  every  worldly  thought  within  me  dies. 
And  earth's  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eyes ; 


I 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  40| 

Till  all  my  sense  is  lost  in  infinite, 

And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 

But  soon,  alas !  this  holy  calm  is  broke ; 
My  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke ; 
With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 
And  mingles  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 
But  he,  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just. 
Knowing  our  fi-ame,  remembers  man  is  dust. 
His  spirit,  ever  brooding  o'er  our  mind. 
Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclined ; 
Marks  the  young  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 
His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  cry. 
His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye ; 
He  reads  the  language  of  a  silent  tear. 
And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 
Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give  ; 
Accept  the  vow,  and  bid  the  suppliant  live ; 
From  each  terrestrial  bondage  set  me  free ; 
Still  every  wish  that  centres  not  in  thee  ; 
Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  vain  disquiets  cease, 
And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 

.    If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  Pleasure  leads 
By  living  waters,  and  through  flowery  meads. 
When  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene. 
And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene, — 
Oh !  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare. 
And  whisper  to  my  slicj^ng  heart,  "  Beware !" 
With  caution  let  me  hear  the  Siren's  voice. 
And,  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart  rejoice. 
If,  friendless,  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray, 
Where  briers  wound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, — 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see. 
And  with  strong  confidence  lay  hold  on  thee ; 
With  equal  eye,  my  various  lot  receive, 
Resigned  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live  ; 
Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod, 
While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 
34* 


L. 


402  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  fiOOK. 

I  read  his  awful  name,  emblazoned  high, 
With  golden  letters,  on  the  illumined  sky ; 
Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 
Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree ! 
In  every  leaf,  that  trembles  to  the  breeze, 
I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees. 
With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
With  thee  in  busy,  crowded  cities  talk ; 
In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power. 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore  : 
Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul, 
Thy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fear  control. 
Thus  shall  I  rest  unmoved  by  all  alarms, 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms. 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  thee. 
Then,  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh. 
And  earth  recedes  before  my. swimming  eye  ; 
When,  trembling,  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state  ; — 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph,  and  a  look  serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high. 
And,  having  lived  to  thee,  in  thee  to  die. 


^  LESSON  CLXXX. 

God. BOWRING. 

[Translated  from  the  Russian '^f  Derzhavik.] 

O  Thou  Eternal  One  !  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  ; 

Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight  j 
Thou  only  God  !     There  is  no  God  beside  1 

Being  above  all  beings !     Mighty  One  ! 

Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore ; 

Who  fill'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone  : 
Embracing  all,— supporting,— ruling  o'er, — 
Being,  whom  we  call  God!— and  know  no  more. 


YOUl>rG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  403 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep ;  may  count 
The  sands,  or  the  sun's  rays  ;   but,  God  !  for  thee 

There  is  no  weight  nor  measure : — none  can  mount 
Up  to  thy  mysteries.     Reason's  brightest  spark, 

Though  kindled  by  thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 

And  thought  is  lost,  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 

Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 

First  chaos,  then  existence.     Lord,  on  thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  :  all 

Sprung  forth  from  thee — of  light,  joy,  harmony, 
Sole  origin  ; — all  life,  all  beauty  thine. 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create  ; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine. 

Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be,  glorious!  great ' 

Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate  ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround ; 

Upheld  by  thee,  by  thee  inspired  with  breath. 
Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound. 

And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death. 
As  sparks  mount  upwards  from  the  fiery  blaze. 

So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  thee 
And,  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  thy  praise. 

A  million  torches,  lighted  by  thy  hand. 

Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss : 
They  own  thy  power,  accomplish  thy  command, 

All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  1     Piles  of  crystal  light  1 

A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams  ? 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright  ? 

Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams  ? 
But  thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 


404  YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 

Yes ;  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  thee  is  lost : 
What  are  ten  thousand  wo;-lds  compared  to  thee? 

And  what  am  /,  then  }    Heaven's  unnumbered  hoat,- 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 

In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, — 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weighed 

Against  thy  greatness ;    is  a  cipher  brought 

Against  infinity  !     Oh !  what  am  I  then  ? — Nought ! 

Nought !     But  the  effluence  of  thy  light  divine. 

Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too; 
Yes ;  in  my  spirit  doth  thy  spirit  shine. 

As  shines  the  sun-beam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
Nought !     But  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly, 

Eager,  towards  thy  presence  ;  for  in  thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high, 

Even  to  the  throne  of  thy  divinity. 

I  am,  O  God ;  and  surely  thou  must  be ! 

Thou  art !  directing,  guiding  all,  thou  art ! 

Direct  my  understanding,  then,  to  thee  ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart : 

Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity. 
Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  by  thy  hand ! 

I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me  ; 

In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost] 
And  the  next  step  is  spirit — Deity  ! 

I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 
A  monarch,  and  a  slave  ;  a  worm,  a  god ! 

Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  ?  so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  ?  unknown  !    This  clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy  ; 

*or,  from  itself  alone,  it  could  not  be» 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  405 


Creator,  yes;  thy  wisdom  and  thy  word 

Created  me !     Thou  Source  of  life  and  good  1 

Thou  Spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord  ! 

Thy  light,  thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude. 

Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 

The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  'wing 
Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  Source — to  thee — its  Author,  there. 

O  thoughts  ineffable !  O  visions  blessed  ! 

Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  thee, 
Yet  shall  thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 

And  waft  its  homage  to  thy  Deity. 
God,  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar ; 

Thus  seek  thy  presence,  Being  wise  and  good ; 
Midst  thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore ; 
And,  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more. 

The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 


LESSON  CLXXXL 

Scene  from  *^The  Vespers  of  Palermo  ;" — Erihert  and  Con- 
stance. — Mrs.  Hemans. 

Constance.    Will  you  not  hear  me  1 — Oh  !  that  they  who 
need 
Hourly  forgiveness,  they  who  do  but  live,  -» 

While  Mercy's  voice,  beyond  the  eternal  stars, 
Wins  the  great  Judge  to  listen,  should  be  thus, 
In  their  vain  exercise  of  pageant  power. 
Hard  and  relentless  ! — Gentle  brother,  yet 
'Tis  in  your  choice  to  imitate  that  Heaven, 
Whose  noblest  joy  is  pardon. 

Erihert.     'Tis  too  late. 
You  have  a  soft  and  moving  voice,  which  pleads 
With  eloquent  melody ; — but  they  must  die. 

Constance.    What,  die! — for  words? — for  breath,  which 
leaves  no  trace 


406 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK. 


To  sully  the  pure  air,  wherewith  it  blends, 

And  is,  being  uttered,  gone  ?— Why,  'twere  enough, 

For  such  a  venial  fault,  to  be  deprived 

One  little  day  of  man's  free  heritage, 

Heaven's  warm  and  sunny  light ! — Oh  !  if  you  deem 

That  evil  harbors  in  their  souls,  at  least 

Delay  the  stroke,  till  guilt,  made  manifest, 

Shall  bid  stern  Justice  wake. 

Erihert.     I  am  not  one  \ 

Of  those  weak  spirits,  that  timorously  keep  watch 
For  fair  occasions,  thence  to  borrow  hues 
Of  virtue  for  their  deeds.     My  school  hath  been 
Where  power  sits  crowned  and  armed. — And  mark  me,  sister ; 
To  a  distrustful  nature,  it  might  seem 
Strange,  that  your  lips  thus  earnestly  should  plead 
For  these  Sicilian  rebels.     O'er  my  being 
Suspicion  holds  no  power. — And  yet  take;  note. . 
— I  have  said,  and  they  must  die.  Z^*  . 

Constance.     Have  you  no  fear  ? 

Erihert.     Of  what  1 — that  heaven  should  fall  ? 

Constance.     No ;  but  that  earth  % 

Should  arm  in  madness.     Brother,  I  have  seen 
Dark  eyes  bent  on  you,  e'en  midst  festal  throngs. 
With  such  deep  hatred  settled  in  their  glance, 
My  heart  hath  died  within  me. 

Erihert.     Am  I  then 
To  pause,  and  doubt,  and  shrink,  because  a  girl, 
A  dreaming  girl,  hath  trembled  at  a  look  ? 

Constance.     Oh!  looks  are  no  illusions,  when  the  soul, 
Which  may  not  speak  in  words,  can  find  no  way 
But  theirs,  to  liberty !     Have  not  these  men 
Brave  sons,  or  noble  brothers  ? 

Erihert.     Yes ;  whose  name 
It  rests  with  me  to  make  a  word  of  fear, 
A  sound  forbidden  midst  the  haunts  of  men. 

Constance.    But  not  forgotten  ! — Ah  !  beware,  beware ! — 
Nay,  look  not  sternly  on  me. — There  is  one 
Of  that  devoted  band,  who  yet  will  need 
Years  to  be  ripe  for  death.     He  is  a  youth, 
A  very  boy,  on  whose  unshaded  cheek 


YOUNG  LADIES'  CLASS  BOOK.  407 

The  spring-time  glow  is  lingering.     'Twas  but  now 
His  mother  left  me,  with  a  timid  hope 
Just  dawning  in  her  breast ; — and  I — I  dared 
To  foster  its  faint  spark.— You  smile  ! — Oh !  then 
[e  will  be  saved  ! 

Erihert.     Nay,  I  but  smiled  to  think 
'"What  a  fond  fool  is  hope !     She  may  be  taught 
To  deem  that  the  great  sun  will  change  his  course 
To  work  her  pleasure,  or  the  tomb  give  back 
Its  inmates  to  her  arms.     In  sooth,  'tis  strange ! 
Yet,  with  your  pitying  heart,  you  should  not  thus 
Have  mocked  the  boy's  sad  mother — I  have  said. 
You  should  not  thus  have  mocked  her  ! — Now,  farewell. 

Constance.     Oh,  brother  !    hard  of  heart!    for  deeds  like 
these 
There  must  be  fearful  chastening,  if,  on  high, 
Justice  doth  hold  her  state.     And  I  must  tell 
Yon  desolate  mother,  that  her  fair  young  son 
Is  thus  to  perish ! — H'aply  the  dread  tale 
May  slay  her  too ;  for  Heaven  is  merciful. — 
'Twill  be  a  bitter  task ! 


LESSON  CLXXXII. 

Address  to  Light. — Milton. 

Hail,  holy  Light !  offspring  of  Heaven  first  oorn, 
Or  of  the  Eternal  coeternal  beam, 
May  I  express  thee  unblamed  ?  since  God  is  light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate : 
Or  hearest  th»u  rather,  pure  ethereal  stream, 
Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  1     before  the  sun. 
Before  the  heavens  thou  wert,  and,  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 
The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 


408                       YOUNG  LADIES-  CLASS  BOOK. 
, ^ Thee  I  revisit  safe, 


And  feel  thy  sovereign,  vital  lamp ;  but  thou 
Revisitest  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn  ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quenched  their  orbs, 
Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander,  where  the  muses  haunt 
Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song ;  but  chief 
Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath. 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit :  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two,  eqjualled  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown. 
Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Maeonides, 
And  Tiresias  and  Phineus,  prophets  old 
Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers ;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and,  in  shadiest  covert  hid, 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note. 

Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return ;  but  not  to  m^  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and,  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair. 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works,  to  me  expunged  and  razed, 
And  wisdom,  at  one  entrance,  quite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind,  through  all  her  powers, 
Irradiate ;  there  plant  eyes ;  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

END.  ,     tl4    '^^..  6 

4 


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